


Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart

by ChampagneSly



Series: Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart (Poetry AU) [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:43:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU with Alfred and Arthur as professors. In which Arthur woos a man who doesn’t know any better with poetry.</p><p>Poetry, mathematics, and star crossed lovers? Who knows—a school year holds many possibilities….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassafrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrass/gifts).



**Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart**

Arthur always complained that the start of the fall semester was too hot and too chaotic, but Alfred had always liked August. Sure, the campus was rife with freshmen who didn’t know how to handle their liquor or their hormones, and there was a new crop of graduate student assistants that needed their hands held as they stepped in front of a 30 person breakout session for the first time, but there was something special, something promising in those early days of a new school year. The weather was still warm and the days long, the campus flush and green with potential and excitement as students got lost looking for classrooms but found their way to the loud keg parties and unsanctioned bonfires that had been a part of Austen University since Alfred and Arthur had been arrogant undergrads.

There were no tests to mark or heartbreaking grades to give in August—just syllabi and smiles that charmed the crop of newbies into thinking that _Mechanical Engineering: Introduction to Thermodynamics with Professor Jones_ was going to be a cake-walk. Arthur had told him for years that he was a rotten instructor for trying to trick students into giving him good evaluations when he was notorious for exams as difficult as his enthusiasm was wide, but Alfred had just figured Arthur was jealous because he couldn’t charm honey from a bee.

Even with his endless volumes of poetry at his disposal and only five years into his career at AU, Arthur already carried a reputation as that professor who called students names and occasionally kicked someone out of class for daring to whisper the word “Wikipedia.” Though to be fair, and Alfred did like to try and be charitable when it came to his fellow faculty, he’d also heard rumors that when Arthur stopped bemoaning the degradation of academia and read aloud from one of his many beloved books, it was spellbinding.

He was forced to grant a grain of truth to these rumors of Arthur’s poetic studliness because once and only once, on the day they were finally hooded and named P-h-D, Arthur had gotten him very drunk and murmured a few lines in his ear that to this day Alfred wished he could remember. No matter how much he had cajoled and teased and threatened since, Arthur had turned up his nose and fluffed up his eyebrows in that way that definitely meant, “ _I think you are tedious and stupid, please go back to your quadratic equations of awesome and leave me alone_.”

Even though Alfred had graduated from the same college, with the same general education requirements as Prof. Tea and Cranky Crumpets, Arthur still insisted that Alfred had proven than he was incapable of appreciating the subtle loveliness of poetry. He said that the day Alfred was able to construe meaning from stanza and verse was the day he would read aloud for Alfred once again.

In August, when life felt both new and nostalgic, Alfred couldn’t help but wonder if this year would the year he finally got around to learning a little bit about literature and a lot about his sometime best friend.

“Daydreaming already? You’ll set a poor example for all the impressionable young minds, Prof. Jones.”

He scratched his head and shrugged, “Sorry, sorry! The sunshine and the start of a new term always makes me a little sleepy.” He fumbled for the agenda for the “Committee on Undergraduate Affairs,” ignoring the way Arthur rolled his eyes and whispered something that probably wasn’t very nice to the Chair of the Economics Department. “So what did I miss?”

“Really, Alfred,” Francis waggled his finger, chastising him in that way that never failed to make Alfred blush like he was a school boy instead of a badass robotics professor. When Francis looked at him like that, fond and frustrated, he couldn’t help but remember how once upon a time Francis had been his favorite adviser. “I know that your department likes to consider itself above such dreary bureaucracy, but as vice-chair, I’m afraid you have no option but to have an opinion on the standard undergraduate curriculum.”

Alfred laughed and spread his hands in a mea culpa, “Don’t worry, Francis! I’m present and accounted for and ready to offer my opinion.”

“No one wants to hear your latest rant on how you need more funding for another whosy-whatsit,” Arthur piped up, smirking at Alfred. “So, by all means, do return to your beauty sleep.”

“Whatever, Artie,” Alfred replied cheerfully, knowing this battle well enough to know there was no better weapon than blithe happiness in the war against English-lit tyranny, “No need to be bitter than more students want to rock out with robotics than party with dead poets.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Francis sing-songed, fingers tapping impatiently on the conference room table, “Do try to remember we are adults charged not only with shaping young minds but also attempting to run a university. All of opinions, be they of letters or science are welcome on this committee.”

“See?” Alfred chortled, “My valuable opinions and observations are wanted by someone.”

“Not by me,” Arthur scoffed, glaring balefully at him from across the room as he muttered, “I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent*.”

“Hey,” Alfred protested, eyes narrowing in response to what he was certain was an insult, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Arthur opened his mouth, only to be cut off by Francis’ noisy sigh. “Neruda so early in the year, Arthur? Getting an early start, are we?”

Alfred wondered why Arthur flushed and called Francis an interfering bastard, still turning over what Arthur had said, trying to pick apart the components of such a weird sentence. He’d always wished that Arthur came with a schematic, instead of a bunch of conflicting data and mismatched parts that he never could seem to put together. Like how even though Arthur had just said he preferred Alfred absent, Alfred knew that Arthur would linger in the conference room until everyone else had gone and demand that Alfred buy him a drink as an apology for being forced to endure his idiocy.

None of it made sense, but it sure as hell was fun trying to figure it all out.

Francis sighed again, ignoring Arthur’s outrage as he waved at group, “On that note, I am adjourning this meeting in the hopes that when we reconvene, everyone will have remembered that we have jobs to do. Now get out of my sight and go make someone else, preferably the students, miserable.”

Alfred stayed in his seat and as the party of professors stood and milled about, listening to the chatter of his colleagues as they swapped stories of summer research and planned sabbaticals, easing into the routine of August responsibilities after the freedom of June and July. He waited while Arthur pretended to ignore him, amused each time he caught Arthur staring at him, smiling as widely as Arthur frowned.

Finally, after five minutes of pretending to be interested in Gilbert’s latest research on early seventeenth century Eastern European battle tactics, Arthur gave up the ruse that he totally wasn’t going to come over and whisk him away to the bar. Pub. Whatever.

“Jones,” Arthur sniffed, crossing his arms over his chest when Alfred continued staring at the window, whistling aimlessly. “If you’re not too busy dawdling and being a drain on the intellectual capital of this great institution, shall we go have a drink?”

Alfred smiled and leaned back his chair, peering up at Arthur’s familiar scowl. “You sure know how to charm a fellow, Artie. I guess the two months you spent in Italy in search of the holy sonnet didn’t do much for your mood.”

Arthur frowned and grabbed Alfred by his collar, hauling him up from his chair as he muttered, “You wouldn’t know charm if it hit you over the head, you idiot.” He sniffed and shrugged off the collegial arm Alfred threw around his shoulders just to annoy him. “Nor would I expect someone with a mind of made of bolts and sprockets to appreciate the finer points of Petrarch.”

Alfred laughed, buoyed by all the possibilities of August and the well known curve of Arthur’s frown. “Well, how about I buy you that drink and maybe you can teach me all about it?”

“Yes, alright, since you insist.” Arthur flushed, nodded and walked out of the room, mumbling under this breath, “I wonder if perhaps this is year you’ll finally learn.”

Alfred shrugged and pushed his hands into his pockets, and followed Arthur out into their great, shared unknown.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought behind this fic is to have a chapter for each of the months in an academic year—so, now it is September and life is in full swing, though Alfred and Arthur continue to talk at cross purposes.

By September the shine had worn just a little from his students’ once so eager and trusting faces, burnished by problem sets and long hours spent coding in the CS lab, but there was still enough spark and curiosity that Alfred looked forward to imparting all his hard earned knowledge to his Wednesday afternoon lecture course. The weather was still warm and the freshmen still lingered shyly outside of his office, clutching their books with questions on their minds and maybe a bit of a blush on their cheeks, and Alfred were still riding high on the fun of being back to school. In September, all systems were finally go—he didn’t have to quell anxious GSA nerves or worry about the newest addition to his lab, a bright eyed and sweet girl from somewhere near Switzerland, because she was just A+ awesome and everyone loved her already.

Four weeks in and he barely had time to breathe, running from his  _Monday-Wednesday-Friday Thermo_  class to his  _Tuesday-Thursday Control Systems_ course, while balancing bureaucracy and responsibility and funding his own research. His Google calendar was crammed so full of meetings it was a rainbow of blocked colors that screamed for his attention and told him how few opportunities he had to try and live a life outside of the ivory tower. Whenever he thought of how many times he’d been forced to cancel this get together or that trip to the bar, Alfred was just grateful that Arthur lived the same crazy, rarefied life of an overscheduled academic.

It made it so much easier to ask for forgiveness when he had to pick up the phone and explain in a great rush of words and flurry of paper that somehow he’d forgotten that his grant application for that new piece of equipment was due at midnight, so would Arthur mind if they rescheduled for two days from now when Alfred had gotten his shit together? Arthur always took such moments to absolutely not be the bigger man and excoriated him for his lack of diligence and proper planning, but sometimes, if Alfred was in a real bind, Arthur showed up at his office with a smug expression, a cup of coffee, and an offer of help contingent upon prompt payment in cold lager once the job was done.

Alfred knew it wasn’t really ideal, spending late nights slumped over paperwork and bitching about the seemingly endless layers of bureaucratic bullshit, but by mid-September he was happy to spend a few hours with Arthur and his pen-stained hands and disapproving eyebrows. He wasn’t sure Arthur felt the same way, couldn’t be entirely sure that Prof. Piss and Vinegar appreciated their stolen time together in the dead hours of the night when the campus was eerily quiet, and it nagged at what limited attention he had left to give that maybe Arthur was frustrated by his flakiness.

In fact, when he’d called a week earlier with a perfectly valid reason ( _really, who made submission deadlines on a Friday?)_  to switch their plans to catch a showing of the latest, greatest Marvel adaptation to Saturday night, Arthur had surprised him by forgoing his grousing in favor of murmuring, “I turn away reluctant from your light and stand irresolute, a mind undone, a silly dazzled thing deprived of sight from having looked too long upon the sun.*” 

And Alfred must have taken too long to answer, befuddled as ever by Arthur’s quixotic moods and tangled words, because before he’d been able to laugh off the strange tension and promise to be better about keeping his calendar, Arthur had sighed noisily and hung up. 

So when Arthur strolled into the lecture hall on that Wednesday and leaned against the back wall, book tucked under his arm and a paper sack dangling from his fingers, the weird tightness that had been hanging out in chest loosened just enough so Alfred could breathe. Alfred smiled and waved, enjoying the flush on Arthur’s cheeks and the much missed cut of his scowl when the entire class turned around to see who had distracted Prof. Jones. He was so damned happy to be graced with the sight of Arthur’s sweater vest  _(Feliks said that Arthur was both hip and retro without trying, which was apparently totally fierce)_ , that Alfred let the birds fly the coop twenty minutes early, sending them off into the sunshine so they could steal some time in the shadows of his office. 

“Do you take great pride in living up to the messy, absent minded professor stereotype?” Arthur drawled when Alfred gallantly held open the door to his tiny, maybe a touch overcrowded office.

“Hey, at least my office isn’t covered in doilies and weird looking figurines,” Alfred protested, wincing when Arthur shoved a stack of papers from one of the mismatched chairs and sat down with a huff. 

“They are not doilies, you dolt,” Arthur grumbled, handing over the sack that he’d carried and setting his book down on a tower of journals that teetered alarmingly with the new addition. “You know very well that whenever my mother misses me, she feels the need to crochet. I can hardly refuse to take home whatever little thing she’s made while thinking of me.” 

Alfred smiled, the last of his worry that Arthur was really mad melted by the familiar tone of fondness Arthur reserved for speaking of his mother and his mother alone. He winked and reached for the bag, “Judging by the amount of lace on your desk, your mom must be thinking of you all the damned time.” 

“You’re just jealous that she’s never liked you enough to give you a gift when you visit,” Arthur taunted smartly, earning a cheerful roll of Alfred’s eyes when he thought about how many times Mrs. Kirkland had said she if she were to have another son, she’d want him to be just like Alfred. 

“Um, Artie,” Alfred said slowly when he peered into the paper bag and found a couple of cookies, “You didn’t by any chance cook these yourself, did you?” 

“I loathe you,” Arthur grumbled, snatching the bag from Alfred’s hands and biting viciously into one of the cookies. “I’ll have you know I bought these from the Student Union.” Alfred thought it was kind of cute, the way the crumbs fell from his lips when he ate with such righteous anger, only to feel guilt curdle in his gut when Arthur swallowed, looked out the window and muttered, “I thought perhaps I could bribe you into spending a few moments of your time with me if I came with food.” 

Alfred flushed and laughed uneasily, fiddling with his glasses. “Treating me like a grad student, huh?” Arthur snorted and turned his gaze from the window. Alfred softened his smile, held out a hand to take the cookie Arthur offered, and hoped someone who knew him well enough to know his favorite kind was oatmeal raisin would be able to tell how much he meant it when he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy and flaky and kinda lame lately.” 

“As you should be. Cancel too many times and I begin to wonder how one person could possibly be so unreliable unless they were avoiding,” Arthur answered tartly, brow nearly collapsing under the weight of his disapproval, before Alfred found relief in the twitch of his lips and his long-suffering sigh. “Though I suppose it would be churlish of me to begrudge you success.” 

“You can always rely on me!” Alfred enthused, concerned that Arthur would think for a single minute that he didn’t totally love his company. He leaned over his desk with the intention of clapping Arthur on the shoulder to prove his reliability and his accessibility, only to send that stack of journals tumbling to the ground. He pushed a sheepish hand through his hair, “Well, alright. Maybe things have been a little crazy this semester.” 

“And we’re barely a month in,” Arthur said wearily, kicking at the journals that had spread haphazardly over his feet, “I shudder to think what state you’ll be in come December.” 

Alfred looked at the chaos of his office and thought of the ten other things he should have been doing in these stolen moments. Arthur was probably right, not that Alfred would ever tell him so, by the time the semester was blanketed in snow he’d probably be buried in paperwork and forgotten obligations.

Alfred shrugged, “Dunno, I’d like to say that it gets easier once it gets familiar, but every year we just seem to get busier and busier and it gets harder to keep track of it all, to keep all the priorities straight between teaching, research, and administration. Not to mention having some kind of personal life.” He paused at Arthur’s odd, fleeting look of unhappiness, clearing his throat and smiling brightly, “But, hey, even though my track record is kinda spotty as of late, I’ll always have time for you! I wouldn’t survive all of this if it weren’t for you helping me out!”

“How comforting,” Arthur muttered dryly, standing up and dusting the crumbs from his pants, “I’m so glad to know that I will forever be on call as your unpaid grant writer.” 

Alfred grinned and gave Arthur a hearty thumbs-up, “You’re the best, Artie! And not just when it comes to saving my ass.” He smiled mischievously when Arthur shot him an unimpressed glare from the threshold of his office, licking his thumb and his finger. “You also know just how to bribe me.” 

“God only knows why I do, you idiot,” Arthur groused, though his lips threatened to break into something that might have resembled a tiny smile on any other face. 

Alfred laughed and waved him away, “Obviously its because you love me!” 

Arthur spluttered, rolled his eyes and took his leave with a two fingered gesture that Alfred was pretty sure meant, “Fuck you, Alfred,” but he choose to believe meant “Peace be with you, my brother.” Alfred laughed as he listened to the hurried click of Arthur’s footsteps down the hallway, echoing in the quiet of the afternoon until there was nothing left of Arthur but an empty paper bag and a book buried under three back issues of  _Circuits and Systems_. 

Alfred cursed when he found the little book resting innocently on his office floor, racing to the door to see if Arthur was still in sight though he knew the man was long gone, steaming ahead on the power of his indignation. He sighed and sat back down, tracing his fingers over the spine of what was obviously a well loved volume, wondering what could possible be so interesting about  _The Complete Works of John Donne._

Alfred looked about the room guiltily when the bookmark that had held Arthur’s page fluttered to his lap, a picture of the famous Trevi Fountains of Rome staring at him from his denim legs. Alfred smiled softly and thought of Arthur in Rome, sweating and trying not to get sunburned in the summer heat as he forced his way through crowds of tourists who “had no proper appreciation for all the subtleties of history,” so he, too, could lay eyes on Rome’s many charms. He turned the postcard over, expecting it to be blank, a bookmark bought on a whim in an airport, only to find the blank space covered in Arthur’s sprawling and lovely handwriting. 

_Dearest-_

_Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them_   
_Of blossoming hawthorns,_   
_And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness_   
_Beneath my hand._

_I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against_   
_The want of you;_   
_Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,_   
_And posting it._   
_And I scald alone, here, under the fire_   
_Of the great moon.**_

Alfred flushed and shoved the card and all its private yearning once more between the pages of Donne’s poems. He stood up and eyed the book that held so many of Arthur’s secrets and filled him with so many questions.

Why had Arthur never sent his postcard? Why did it remain without an address, stuck between the yellowed pages of old poems?

Why had Arthur never told him he was in love?

Who was  _Dearest-?_

Who was this nameless person who Arthur thought of in such bleak and desolate terms while looking at Rome’s romantic vistas?

And why wouldn’t they love someone like Arthur in return?

But these were questions that he had no right to ever ask, even if Arthur were his best friend, questions that would have to keep for another day and another time or another Arthur. 

So Alfred put the away of the memory of the verse and Arthur’s secret wishes as surely as Arthur had slid this undelivered wish between the pages of a favorite book, turned his attention to the thousand other problems he could try and solve, and made a silent promise to be a better friend. 

And as with all things that came in good time, Alfred trusted that Arthur would one day tell him everything there was to know about  _Dearest_. 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From “When I too long have looked upon your face,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
> 
> ** From “The Letter,” by Amy Lowell


	3. Chapter 3

“Remind me why I am subjecting myself to this?” Arthur hissed in his ear, fingers digging into his elbow as Alfred cheerfully steered them through the throngs of excited and not entirely sober students dressed head to toe in the intimidating  colors of AU.

Alfred smiled and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of beer, bourbon, barbequed meat and the anticipation of victory. He loved this time of year, when the Indian Summer of September had faded into crisp air and fired colored leaves that crinkled beneath his feet. He slung his arm around Arthur’s hunched posture of “do not dare bump into me, intoxicated undergraduate,” and thought that there wasn’t a damned better way to spend a Saturday in the fall than grabbing a few beers and then grabbing his best friend so they could catch a football game.

“Because its October, Artie!” Alfred reminded him loudly, squeezing the curve of his shoulder as they passed through the old marbled arches that led to the bleachers full of folks that he considered family from the first coin toss to the last pass. He ignored Arthur’s resigned huff as he pushed him towards their seats—the seats he’d had to beg, barter, and pull a Bonnefoy to get. “Because its October and its Homecoming…and we used to do this sort of thing together…”

Alfred trailed off, suddenly nervous as he took in Arthur’s soft expression of surprise when he recognized the deep grooves in the wood. Sure, the marks they’d left what seemed like both a lifetime and only a day ago were a little worn by weather and time, and in danger of being encroached upon “Pi Kappa Alpha 4 Lyfe,” but there amidst the inferior graffiti were words written by two stupid kids who were now men.

_AJ & AK PhuckD AU _

“My god, we were obnoxious little shits,” Arthur snorted, the smile in his voice making Alfred feel hazy and warm like a good shot of whiskey.

Arthur dragged his fingernail over the scratched graffiti that had taken an them an entire season of home games to complete during the last year of their graduate program, when abandoning dissertations and defenses for a few hours of football had felt like a gift from the gods. It was funny, Alfred thought, that not so many years later they were both still here, with those letters they’d mocked tacked on after their names, still trying to find the time to have the kind of fun that had once been so easy to share. 

But in October, when the sun was setting and the marching band was playing the first few notes of the fight song that Alfred had etched on his bones, and Arthur made that same hilarious expression of disdain as he wiped down a wooden bench that was way too old to ever be clean again…this time still felt like a gift.

“Yeah, we were! But we had a damned good time, didn’t we?” Alfred smiled and flopped down next to Arthur, bumping him with his hips until he was properly settled with legs spread and sprawled in front, shoes crunching on old peanut shells and sunflower seeds. The ridiculous boast of their youth fit in the space where their thighs didn’t touch and Arthur smirked, looked covertly side to side and pulled out a battered old flask that Alfred hadn’t seen since AU trounced Nordic State.

“I see we’re still having a damned good time!” Alfred rubbed his hands together gleefully, remembering the taste of cheap liquor and the sound of rally chants when Arthur unscrewed the cap and dramatically hid the flask up his sleeve before taking a sip.Alfred laughed and wondered how the hell they had ever thought that move was stealth, delighted when Arthur coughed through the burn of booze so bad they probably hadn’t touched the stuff since they made enough money to know better. Arthur glared with watery eyes and shoved the flask into his eager fingers. Alfred smacked his lips in anticipation and murmured, “Ah, this takes me back! Thanks, Artie.”

The liquor was hot and rough down his throat and he even though he wished he knew how they used to drink this crap, the sting of cheap alcohol was tempered by Arthur’s fond smile and amused gaze. Alfred swallowed and clenched his fingers around the flask, trying desperately not to give in and splutter like Arthur, absolutely resolute in his need to maintain American supremacy over shitty booze.

Arthur smirked and poked the flush on his cheeks with the chilled tip of his finger. “Glad to see you’re still a total wanker when it comes to admitting defeat.”

Alfred snapped at the finger that dared to impugn his awesomeness, laughing through the liquor’s lingering scald. “Somethings will never change. Never.”

Arthur looked at him so strangely that Alfred wondered whether or not he’d gotten something on his face but just as he thought to ask what the hell Arthur found so interesting, Arthur had turned his eyes towards the field and Alfred was left without an answer, listening to the low rumble of Arthur’s voice.

_All kings, and all their favourites,_

_All glory of honours, beauties, wits,_

_The sun it self, which makes time, as they pass,_

_Is elder by a year now than it was_

_When thou and I first one another saw._

_All other things to their destruction draw..*_

_  
_Alfred flushed, inexplicably, patting Arthur on the back as he rushed to exclaim, “Hey, hey, hey! No poetry at football games!” Arthur stiffened beneath the splay of his hand and Alfred hurried to lighten the mood that he’d somehow broken, “You remember the old rules, right? No poems, no equations! Just football and booze!”

“Oh, well, pardon me for thinking that perhaps we had matured just a little,” Arthur grumbled, the stain of red receding on his cheeks as the bow of his back eased. He still refused to look at Alfred, attention seemingly glued on the coin toss.

Alfred took another swig of the nasty grain alcohol, hoping the churn of the booze would allay the guilt he felt at making Arthur’s shoulders hunch like that. It was just that the meter and rhyme made him think of that postcard he wasn’t supposed to have ever seen, made him remember _Dearest_ and all those sad words Arthur had written and hidden. Alfred wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed over the flask, knowing that he could always just ask—just sling an arm around his neck and say, “ _Hey, buddy. How’s the love life these days? Anyone I should know about?”_

But there was something that held him back and Alfred couldn’t quite put his finger on the flaw in his programming that kept him quiet on this matter, couldn’t quite say why it felt as though knowing the answer to that question—having a name or face to go with the mysterious _Dearest_ that kept hurting Arthur’s heart—made his stomach twist. He supposed that if Arthur wanted him to know, he’d say something and for the time being, it was best to keep quiet and keep as far away from reminders of pretty poems and sad images as possible.

“Professor Jones?”

“Oh! Hey, Lilli!” Alfred stumbled over his greeting, snapped abruptly from his totally not football related thoughts at the sound of a sweet, familiar voice. Startled, Arthur jostled beside him, obviously trying to stash their illicit liquor, even though they were both tenure track professors in their thirties. Alfred smirked, attempting to choke down his giggles when Arthur glared daggers. “So, uh, how’s it going?”

Alfred could practically hear Arthur’s eye roll and silently fumed _“Oh, very smooth. Very smooth indeed.”_ Alfred thought that was pretty rich coming from a guy who’d just shoved a flask under his thigh and crossed his hands over his crotch.

Lilli smiled, “Everything is lovely, Professor. Aron and I wrapped up early in the lab, so we thought we might come check out the game. He assured me that he knew all the rules, but I am almost positive he’s as clueless as I am when it comes to football.”

“That sounds nice,” Alfred said absently, seeking out this Aron character who had designs on misleading his favorite student in the important ways of football. Alfred frowned when he finally noticed the shifty looking guy skulking two rows down, obviously waiting for Lilli to rejoin him. Alfred recognized him as one of Ludwig’s students, and even though Ludwig had the most exacting standards ever, Alfred didn’t trust his sweet Lilli with a kid who wore boots like _that_. Alfred narrowed his eyes and glared until the guy huffed and turned away.

“Trust me, my dear, you aren’t missing much,” Arthur was saying, when Alfred finally abandoned playing surrogate big brother. Lilli was still smiling, listening tolerantly to Arthur’s tired rail against American sports. “These games take far too long, have far too many interruptions, the players wear far too much gear, and there’s really very little drama or artistry.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and shook his head, mouthing, “Don’t listen to him. He’s old,” to Lilli, who giggled and gave them both a sly wink.

“I see,” she said with false gravity, pointing a pink fingernail in the direction of Arthur’s lap, “Then I suppose its very good that you have that flask hidden beneath your jacket.”

Alfred howled with laughter as Arthur spluttered and flailed, and finally collapsed into hiccuping, ridiculous gales of amusement. Lilli, apparently intimidated by such awesome displays of hilarity, bid them a rushed and giggled farewell, abandoning them to the strange and questioning looks of their fellow AU fans. Alfred dragged his glasses from his face to swipe at the wetness in his eyes, burying his face in Arthur’s shaking shoulders as they struggled to get their shit under control.

“We totally just got busted, didn’t we?”

“We most certainly did,” Arthur managed through his chuckles. “Five years of grad school and we never once got caught. Now here we are, distinguished representatives of academia, and I’ve got Wild Turkey between my legs.” Alfred felt  Arthur’s fingers brush over his hair. “Honestly, the depths to which you make me sink. I blame you entirely for this debacle.”

“Oh my god, don’t even try to pin this one on me!” Alfred gasped, “You are like the least subtle person in the world.”

“If that’s true,” Arthur sniffed, shoving him off with sharp elbow to the gut, “Then you must be the densest person in the world.”

“Whatever you say, Artie!” Alfred shrugged and smiled widely, touching his fingers to the etched memory on the seat and giving Arthur a thumbs-up when he gave up the ruse of propriety and just started taking huge swigs from the flask. Arthur’s cheeks were flushed, maybe from the chill, maybe from the liquor, and maybe even from laughter and Alfred wanted to take a picture of him just like this—-loose and happy and familiar, drinking cheap booze and rolling his eyes when AU fumbled the ball again.

He wanted to do this every October. Wanted to start the year bitching and moaning about papers and too much work and then run away on a Saturday night to do stupid things with a man who was anything but stupid, but who still wanted to hang out with him anyway. Even if Alfred got them in trouble, even if Arthur was keeping really big secrets, it was all totally worth it, to be slumped warm and rumpled against Arthur’s side, watching his team get routed.

“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred said without thinking, too high on sentimentality to care if he was about to do something really selfish, to wonder if he was trying to keep Arthur away from people who merited such sad fucking poems stashed in old and boring books. Arthur turned to him, one eyebrow raised in thick expectation. Alfred grinned, swallowing his doubts. “How about coming home with me for Thanksgiving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * From John Donne’s The Anniversary
> 
> Alfred cuts Arthur off just before the end of that stanza…
> 
> All other things to their destruction draw,
> 
> Only our love hath no decay;
> 
> This no to-morrow hath, nor yesterday;
> 
> Running it never runs from us away,
> 
> But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
> 
> Poor Arthur. Next time—Thanksgiving dinner with the family.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart 4**

Alfred was definitely, absolutely not jealous. Not even a little. Just because his favorite niece had apparently decided that big eyebrows and cranky dispositions were the best thing ever, Alfred had no reason to be envious. Even if she’d taken one look at Uncle Alfred’s Thanksgiving guest and promptly latched on to Arthur’s way less impressive ankle and demanded to be dragged through house, Irina’s momentary fixation with certain English bastards that had no scruples in usurping the affections of admittedly awesome toddlers was no cause for concern.

So maybe Irina had only wanted to play Transformers for ten minutes before Arthur had lured her away with his astonishing powers of being really boring and old, still not a big deal. And while he fully intended to have words with his way too amused younger brother about trying to not laugh in his face when his daughter turned traitor and begged for Arthur and not Alfred to pick her up, Alfred was totally cool as cucumber and definitely not at all tempted lure Irina away from Prof. Stuffy with the promise of another piece of Katya’s pumpkin pie.

Not even a little tempted.

Even now, watching Irina attempt to climb up Arthur’s legs and tip his post-feast cup of tea into his lap _(which Alfred knew he shouldn’t want to see happen, but really, it would serve the niece-thief right_ ), Alfred believed that before the holiday weekend was over, Irina would remember her once beloved Uncle Al. Before they’d grown tired of turkey leftovers, before they’d watched enough football to make Arthur see red and declare that he was returning to England as soon as bloody possible, Irina would look up at Alfred with her mama’s beautiful eyes and whack him in the shins with Dinobot and all would be well in the world. 

Besides, Alfred thought begrudgingly, it was Thanksgiving and he’d brought Arthur home to his family…and there was something kind of serene and unexpectedly sweet in Arthur trying to balance an arm full of little girl and a cup of tea. The sound of the fire crackling, the lingering smell of spice, and the rare sight of Arthur’s gentle, indulgent smile—Alfred leaned against the living room door and knew that even the best damned Norman Rockwell painting didn’t hold a candle to this November moment.

Even if Irina’s expression of utter adoration for Arthur was making him just a little jealous.

He wondered if either of them even knew he was standing there listening to Irina babble endlessly in the strangely cute language that only Mattie and Katya seemed to understand, wondered if Arthur knew that his reputation as curmudgeon had died a swift and adorable death the very second he started making animal sounds. He wasn’t quite sure which one of two was more shameless—Irina in her wide-eyed enjoyment or Arthur in his enthusiastic efforts to secure more of his littlest fan’s good will, but Alfred was entirely certain that this was most ridiculous and endearing scene he’d ever witnessed.

His rubbed his hand over the ache in his chest and wondered if he needed to go get a Tums when Arthur finally realized that tea and toddlers don’t really pair that well and set his cup aside to better hold Irina astride his knee. His desire to laugh at Irina’s consternation from being so cleverly maneuvered faded into quiet amusement as Arthur bounced her once, twice, three times and said,

“How about a little ditty about birdies instead of any more silly sounds? What do you say, my dearest girl?”

Alfred stilled, holding his breath just in case Arthur heard him and decided somehow to stop making that face that made his whole body feel warm and slow, just in case his presence broke the spell Arthur begun to weave with his words, enchanting both audiences known and unknown.

_Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,_

_The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!”_

_In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;_

_What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song._

_But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,_

_And singing, and loving—all come back together._

_But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,_

_The green fields below him, the blue sky above,_

_That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—_

_“I love my Love, and my Love loves me!_ ”*

Arthur chuckled as he finished the poem, low and rough in a way that Alfred would have said he felt in his bones, were it not for the sudden snap of a towel against his backside, pain and surprise wrenching his attention away from Arthur and Irina and the impossibility of discovering a new Arthur after so many years of thinking he knew everything there was to know. He yelped and Arthur startled, nearly tipping Irina from her perch, her giggles at being so tossed about drowning out the guilt Alfred felt when Arthur glared accusingly, cheeks gone red and angry.

“Hey, what gives!” Alfred grumbled, turning away from Arthur’s strange expression to rub his butt and demand find out why the hell his once so sweet Mattie had just whacked him with a rolled up towel. “

Matthew smiled innocently, “What gives is that you’re supposed to be in here helping me do the dishes, not skulking around playing jealous Uncle.”

“Ha, so pathetic,” Arthur snorted and it was only because he refused to corrupt the mind of such an innocent and precious child that Alfred did not give him a single finger salute.

“Whatever, I’m not jealous,” Alfred said loudly, wincing when he heard Irina’s gleeful parroting of _pathetic, pathetic! I_ He shot Irina his sunniest smile, flashing her two thumbs up as he declared, “Favorite uncles are never envious, right Little Lady?”

“You’re not her favorite uncle,” Matthew informed him blithely,  adding insult to injury by grabbing Alfred by the shirt collar and dragging him from room. “Ivan is.”

“That’s just cruel!” Alfred groaned and sagged in his brother’s clutches, holding his hand over his heart as they stumbled into the too warm and way too cluttered kitchen. “You wound me, Mattie.” He looked at the stacks of pots, pans and leftovers in of boxing up, and then looked at Matthew’s tiny smile of vicious delight. Alfred frowned and sighed, “You used to be so cute. What the hell happened to you?” 

Matthew tossed a sponge at his face. “I grew up.” Alfred trudged over to the sink, nudging his brother’s shoulder with a playful pout. Matthew’s lips twitched, just a little. “And grown ups do the dishes when someone else has spent all day cooking for them.”

Alfred shoved his hands into the soapy water, ribbing Matthew, “So how come Arthur doesn’t have to help?”

Matthew hummed and shoved him him right back, “One, he’s a guest. Two, he has to put up with you. Three, Irina likes him more than you. Four, I like him more than you.”

“You are the worst brother ever,” Alfred grumbled, beginning to wonder if he should have left Arthur to skulk around the campus instead of coming here to win the hearts and minds of his nearest and dearest. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were just Matthew—he’d always had a soft spot for the sourpuss—but he had yet to recover from the loss of his adorable little Irina.

“I try,” Matthew said gamely, “Now put a little elbow grease into getting that scorched pan clean, will you? I’d like to get these done before Christmas, if at all possible.”

Alfred flicked water at his brother, a last ditch effort to instigate a fight he was definitely too old to be having, only to find that Matthew was as impervious to his attempts at annoyance as he had been when they were boys. He smiled as Matthew wiped the water from his face without blinking an eye and handed him yet another dish that needed a serious soak before Alfred had any hopes of defeating the sticky stains. Mattie just stared until he caved and resigned himself to a fate of suds and scrubs.

Quiet settled in the kitchen and Alfred let his hands move over plate after plate while listening to the laughter of a little girl and her mother, interspersed with Arthur’s rumbling voice as he turned on the charm he never bothered to use on Alfred. While Arthur might have been a bastard usurper of families who didn’t even have to do dishes for the family he’d so shamelessly stolen, Alfred couldn’t deny that it was kind of nice to have all the people he liked the most under one roof, far away from students with their questions and administrations with their demands, taking the time to do things like drink tea and tell little girls silly stories about birds.

As he worked at getting a particularly stubborn piece of grit off the carving knife, Alfred wondered what Arthur would have done if he hadn’t asked him along on that chill October evening. He hadn’t thought to question whether Arthur had somewhere else he’d want to go, if there was….someone…else who deserved his company more. Two months since September and Alfred still thought about _Dearest_ and sometimes he stared at Arthur when Arthur wasn’t looking and wondered what else he was keeping hidden beneath a furrowed brow and a threatening scowl.

“Hey Mattie,” Alfred said softly, breaking their truce of silence as he handed over the dish to his brother’s waiting towel, “Has Arthur ever said anything to you about…” He paused, swallowing the odd hesitation that always kept him from asking the question. Matthew looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised over the rims of his glasses as he kept right on drying dishes. Alfred tried to play off his nerves with a bright smile. “Heh. I know its crazy, but has Artie ever said anything to you about, um, a special someone?”

Matthew blinked twice and set down the big platter, giving Alfred his full attention. “Why? Has he said something to you?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Alfred flushed guiltily, scrubbing harder and harder to distract himself from the way his stomach tightened unpleasantly. He definitely needed that Tums. “But I accidentally kind of stumbled on this postcard he’d written but never sent.” The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against the sink. “I’m pretty sure it was a love letter.”

“I see,” Matthew said quietly, “And you’ve got no idea for whom it was intended?”

Alfred shook his head, flattening the now wrinkled tips of his fingers against the edge of the sink. “No. It was only addressed to _Dearest_.” He looked up to find Matthew staring at him intently. Alfred shrugged and laughed a little, trying to dodge the strange tension. “But Arthur’s never said a word to me about anyone like that. Cagey bastard.”

“Alfred,” Matthew said slowly, “You’re my brother and I have to love you. But you can be kind of an ass.”

Stung, Alfred rushed to his own defense, shouting, “Hey! Its not like I meant to find the damned thing. He left the book in my office and then BAM! there it was in my lap, all flowery words and broken hearts.”

“Keep your voice down,” Matthew hissed, nodding towards the living room, deflating Alfred’s anger with a single gesture. Alfred bit his lip and tried to look apologetic. Matthew shook his head and sighed, squeezing Alfred’s shoulder. “And that’s not what I meant.”

Alfred wanted to ask what the hell he was talking about, wanted to know why everyone in his life liked to speak in riddles and rhymes instead of logic and sense, but was robbed of the opportunity when his little brother did what he always did and walked out before Alfred could get his way.

Frustrated, but determined not to let a little thing like Matthew’s constant disapproval ruin his Thanksgiving, Alfred returned to the dishes and thinking nice thoughts of his cute little niece chasing after a pair of calling birds.

~~

Later, when all the plates and platters were finally clean and stacked away until Christmas, and Irina had been carted off to her room with her tired parents, Alfred risked leaving the kitchen and returning to the scene of his great niece-defeat. The fire was still stoked high and Arthur was still sitting in the same damned chair, legs curled under his body as he read a book and sipped some of Mattie’s good bourbon.

Mattie _never_ shared his good liquor with him, the brat.

Alfred frowned and swiped the glass from Arthur’s hand, dancing away with it while Arthur spluttered and raged.

“Give that back this instance, you twit!”

“Hell no, you can consider this your payment for leaving me alone to do all the dishes!” Alfred smacked his lips and took an obscenely large sip, sighing with pleasure as he swallowed. He took another drink, polishing off the last drops. He eyed Arthur suspiciously. “And that’s payment for stealing my family, you bloody twat.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and grumbled, “That’s disgusting, Alfred. Don’t use words you don’t understand, you embarrass yourself.” He smirked as Alfred sunk to the floor, running his still water wrinkled hands over the carpet. “And you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, surely, with your fine performance as abandoned uncle.”

“So cruel, Artie. So cruel.” Alfred groaned theatrically, “Between you and my brother, I don’t think I can recover from all these slings and arrows.”

“Did you just quote Shakespeare?” Arthur snorted, poking him in the side with his cold toes.

“Maybe I did,” Alfred teased playfully, propping on one elbow to peer at Arthur tucked into his brother’s chair, mocking him with such obvious delight.  Alfred preened, “I have been known to read a book or two in my time, you know.” He tapped his temple and winked, “Its not all calculation and charm up here.”

“You could have fooled me. A great brute like you knowing anything so delicate and refined,” Arthur murmured, and there was something in the curve of his smirk and the firelight warmth of his gaze that compelled Alfred to lean forward and pluck the book from Arthur’s fingers, ignoring his companion’s rushed protests.

“Ha, just to prove you wrong, I’ll even read one of your fancy-schmancy classics right now,” Alfred crowed happily, flopping onto his back and letting his eyes trace the work that Arthur had been perusing before he so kindly interrupted. He cleared fulling intending to give a fine dramatic performance, only to have that teasing wish turn to cinders before he’d made it ten lines down the page.

_Lay your sleeping head, my love,_

_Human on my faithless arm;_

_Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from_

_Thoughtful children, and the grave_

_Proves the child ephemeral:_

_But in my arms till break of day_

_Let the living creature lie,_

_Mortal, guilty, but to me_

_The entirely beautiful.**_

_  
_He closed the book resolutely, turning his face towards the fire so he could blame the flush on the heat of the flames and not the odd burning intimacy he felt for having read words that had just been touched by Arthur’s eyes. Alfred laughed nervously as he stood up from the floor, avoiding Arthur’s gaze for all that he knew it was on him, as weighted and immovable as Matthew’s inexplicable disappointment. Gently, he dropped the book onto Arthur’s lap and tried to smile carelessly as he lied, “Actually, I think I’m too tired for something so brainy and above a big brute like me.’

“I’m starting to believe it would be a miracle for you to ever be capable of understanding something like this,” Arthur mumbled tartly, tucking the book under his arm and turning abruptly away, the cut of his frown so severe Alfred wanted to make amends for offenses he wasn’t sure he’d committed. 

Instead he did what they had always done best, and laughed off Arthur’s anger, filling the quiet space of his brother’s living room with one last feeble joke.

“Well, they say Christmas is a good time for miracles, so maybe we should try again in a month.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Answer to a Child’s Question,” Samuel Taylor Coleridge
> 
> ** From “Lullaby,” by Auden (which is one of my favorites)


	5. Chapter 5

Five o’clock on a mid-December day and the sky was already dark, clouds heavy with the promise of snow or awful sleeting rain, but Alfred was happy as a lark. Lilli had just brought him the last of the marked exams and blushed as she gave him homemade chocolate and a card that wished her favorite adviser a very happy holidays. Grades were ready to be posted and the students had all gone home, exhausted by finals and carrying bags of laundry to foist off on indulgent parents. Hell, he’d even managed to clean up his office into tidy stacks of journals and papers and copies of copies of proposals, each little tower conveniently marked with a post-it note that said “To-Do in 2013.” 

Patting himself on the back for another semester hurriedly and well done, Alfred turned off his laptop and rolled his shoulders in a long and pleasant stretch, and wondered what was keeping Prof. Figgy Pudding from picking him for their “date” to the annual faculty and staff holiday shindig. Arthur had been strangely present since Thanksgiving, dropping by during his office hours and showing up to Gilbert’s undergraduate disciplinary committee meetings that he’d once described as “creatively precise tortures devised by a twisted mind,” so he could easily wheedle Alfred into heading to the campus pub for a beer or four. It had been really nice to have a sudden surplus of Arthur, particularly at this time of year when his calendar burst at the seams with obligation, and though he did wonder what Arthur was giving up to chase him down, Alfred had done what he always did and decided not to look a  gift horse in the mouth and question his good fortune. 

But as hard as he tried, and Alfred was known for trying really hard, he couldn’t quite ignore the odd tension that gummed up the once well oiled gears of their friendship any time the silence lingered for too long, any time he put down his beer and found Arthur staring at him. He could see that there was something Arthur wanted to say, a question in the corners of his eyes and maybe even in the weird flatness of his smile every time Alfred laughed and tried to push them once more into motion. He had a feeling that Arthur was waiting for an invitation or maybe an opening, but whenever Arthur went quiet and expectant and Alfred felt a fluttering in his chest that couldn’t be blamed on the beer, an error code flashed and he scrambled to redirect, redirect, redirect back to common and familiar ground. 

Maybe Mattie was right, Alfred thought reluctantly. Maybe he was an ass, not to give his best friend the space to say whatever it was he needed to say…but he just knew that the unspoken word on Arthur’s tongue was  _Dearest_ …and damn it all, he just wasn’t ready to have his own unasked question answered. 

“Stop lazing about, Professor Jones,” Arthur barked, startling Alfred right out of his chair and into two of his awesome towers of To-Do. Alfred rubbed his knee and glared at the intruder he’d expected ten minutes ago, before he’d started daydreaming and put a serious dent in his holiday mood. Arthur peered down his snooty nose, scoffing, “No need to look at me like that. Its hardly my fault your office is a sty.”

Alfred threw a copy of “Analog Integrated Circuits” at Arthur’s smug face. “No, but it is your fault that you’re late, Professor Kirkland.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes and offered Alfred hand up, pointing with the other out the window and he gleefully informed him, “My apologies for keeping his lordship waiting, but the sudden snow made my drive in more than a little interesting.” 

Alfred brightened, “Snow! Man, that’s the best way to end the term.” He smiled and looked out the window to find that the the skies had indeed opened up white and flurried, “There’s just something so nice about leaving the campus to be quiet and covered-up, like a blanket for winter-break sleep.” 

“How poetic,” Arthur murmured and when a thumb swept over his knuckles, Alfred realized that he was still holding the hand that had pulled him the floor.

“Ah ha ha, you know me, Artie. I’m a poet and I don’t even know it!” Alfred’s cheeks warmed as he freed Arthur’s fingers from his clutches to go in search of his coat and scarf, so they could both go in search of territory safer than the dim quiet of Alfred’s office. 

Arthur made a noise of severe scorn and delighted disapproval at Alfred’s admittedly poor attempt at humor, whacking the back of his head as they passed into the abandoned hall. “You, sir, are the best kind of proof that having an advanced degree is not a sign of advanced intelligence,” Arthur said coolly, breezing haughtily past Alfred’s squawk of amused offence and out the door into the soft snowfall. 

“Says the man who did post-doctoral work at Cambridge but needed me to program his DVR,” Alfred retorted cheerfully, breath spilling out into the cold evening as he held out a palm to catch snowflakes on his skin. The grounds were covered by no more than an inch, but the skies promises more, and Alfred knew that by morning AU would be a lonely winter paradise. He jogged to catch up to Arthur, slinging an arm around his shoulders for warmth and because there was just something about the campus feeling like it belonged only to them that made him recklessly affectionate. “So, do you think Francis managed to convince Dean Germania to revive some of Old Man Roma’s holiday traditions?” 

“I assume you’re referring to the past practice of everyone getting very drunk at the Dean’s expense?” Arthur swatted at the hand that squeezed his shoulder before slumping into Alfred’s embrace. Alfred nodded and smiled, watching the snow melt and darken Arthur’s hair. He could hear the satisfied smirk in Arthur’s voice as they kept walking and he kept talking, “Well, being a terrible braggart, Bonnefoy let it slip that he  persuaded Germania to spring for an hour’s worth of open bar before we’re left to our own devices.” 

Alfred laughed, remembering how shamelessly drunk they’d gotten that first year when they were just assistant professors, too afraid to make a wrong move until Roma had shoved a bottle of wine in their faces and instructed them to eat, drink, and be merry with what little time they all had before January brought back work and obligation. They may not have paid for a single drink that night, but for the next six months, Dean Roma enjoyed wringing every last drop of embarrassment from his newest faculty recruits by showing anyone who would look pictures of Arthur in Alfred’s lap with his tie around his head, attempting to read a textbook that was upside-down.  When Alfred had finally decided that if he couldn’t beat them, it was best to join in on the fun and put a framed copy of the incriminating evidence on his office wall—right next to his doctoral diploma—Arthur had taken one look, turned a hilarious shade of red, and not spoken to him for a week. 

Ah, those were the best of times, Alfred thought wistfully, absently tightening his hold on Arthur’s shoulders and blinking snow from his eyelashes.

“Are you listening to me, you ass?” Arthur grumbled, elbowing Alfred in the side and once more tearing him loose from the threads of memory. Alfred smiled sheepishly and shook his head, wilting a little under the chill of a frown colder than the wind that tried to get under his collar. “Honestly, you really do take too much pleasure in playing at the absent minded professor,” Arthur scolded. “Do you think you can tear yourself away from whatever nonsense goes through that block head for two minutes together?” 

“I dunno, Artie,” Alfred teased, “I’m starting to think all those rumors about swoon worthy Professor Kirkland and his dreamy voice might be a total lie, considering I keep wanting to fall asleep every time you talk.” 

“You are a wretched man,” Arthur declared hotly, “And I don’t know why I put up with you.” 

“So you keep saying, buddy,” Alfred retorted cheerfully, dropping his hold to bound up the stairs to the Faculty Club and hold open the door for his surly and shivering companion. “And yet, you keep hanging out with me. So, yet again, I think I’m gonna have to pin the fail on the British donkey.” 

Arthur scowled as he trudged up the stairs, muttering things that were definitely not appropriate for shared company under his breath, only to surprise Alfred when he pushed the door shut and rubbed his hands over his arms, looking anywhere but at Alfred.

Warily, Alfred asked, “What’s up? Its bound to be less cold, ya know…inside.” 

Arthur shot him a nasty glare before clearing his throat and staring at the falling snow beyond the awning’s shelter, “I was wondering what you were doing for the New Year.” 

Puzzled, Alfred scratched his head and wondered why they had to talk about something so boring outside. “Um, no clue. I’m at Mattie’s until the 27th, but then Katya’s brother AND sister are coming to visit, so I’m hightailing it out of town.” 

“I see,” Arthur said softly, though his eyes were bright. Now it was Alfred’s turn to look away, though he couldn’t say why he didn’t want to see the flush on Arthur’s cheeks or the nervous wringing of his hands. “Well, I thought perhaps if you were free, you might want to—” 

“Oh my god! There you two are!” Feliks shrieked, flinging the Faculty Club door open and nearly leveling Alfred with both door and loud enthusiasm. Feliks peered at them both, frowning as he saw the sorry state of their wet coats, “Ugh, its totally cold out. Anywho, Al—Ludwig’s in like dire need of your company ASAP. Something about your failure to properly account for your shared grad student’s time, and he’s totes dragging the party down with his grumbling.” 

“Oh damn, I guess I better go play the hero and make sure all is well with everyone’s favorite German,” Alfred said hurriedly, smiling tightly at Feliks, who tapped his foot impatiently. The breath he’d been holding rushed out as Alfred turned to Arthur, clasping his shoulder and dragging him into the warmth and noise of the party, ignoring Arthur’s angry, frustrated frown. “Sorry about this Artie, come find me later and we’ll finish this!” 

Arthur’s bitter, “I suspect it has finished before it even begun,” echoed in his ears as he dogged Feliks’ footsteps and fled the scene. 

~~

When later came and Alfred’s cheeks hurt from so much smiling and good cheer and it was too damned late in the evening to ignore the guilty little voice that sounded a lot like Mattie calling him an even bigger ass, Alfred wandered the rooms of the Faculty Club looking for Arthur. Even as he’d talked Ludwig down from a disorganization ledge and glad-handed the muckety-mucks of the administration, half his attention had been for Arthur, one eye constantly looking through the crowd of his colleagues for the most familiar face. But he’d been nowhere to be found and not once had he heard even a hint of Artie’s slightly liquored up laughter, and Alfred thought it was a damned shame that this holiday party had none of the cheer of year’s gone by.

He knew it was an even bigger shame that he was likely to blame, that he’d committed another offense he didn’t quite understand in abandoning Arthur on snow covered stairs. 

Hangdog and full of remorse, Alfred searched through each wood paneled room, drifting in and out of conversations as he looked for Arthur. It was only after twenty minutes of blowing off friends who weren’t Arthur that Alfred found him, slumped over a table with an empty bottle of wine to one side and Francis to another. Strange jealousy stung in his throat, tinged his well-intended regret a pale shade of green as he watched Francis’ hand stroke up and down the curve of Arthur’s back while Arthur’s fingers traced the corners of a worn cocktail napkin. 

“Arthur,” Alfred said loudly, taking one step into the room only to be frozen in place by Francis’ gaze of chill disappointment and Arthur’s expression of drunken anger and sadness. Alfred swallowed and watched as Arthur’s chair clattered backwards and his friend went storming and stumbling from the room before he’d even been able to breathe an  _“I’m sorry_.” 

He started after him, wanting to catch ink stained fingers and demand to know why Arthur seemed so damned sad so he could apologize and promise never to do it again, to never again be the cause of a look that cut like a knife. But Francis, it seemed, had similar plans for a different prey, snapping his fingers and calmly ordering Alfred:

“Let him go. Leave him be for a time. He’s too drunk to speak any sort of sense and I do not think he would wish to have such a conversation with so little control.” 

Alfred stormed over to Francis, insisting, “Damn it, Francis. I need to apologize. I’ll tell him again when he’s sober, but he needs to know I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done.” 

Francis’s laughter was brittle as he shoved Alfred into Arthur’s abandoned seat, murmuring not unkindly, “My dear, whatever it is Arthur needs from you, I promise it is not your confused if earnest apologies.” 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Francis.”  Alfred sighed with frustration, wishing he could go back and tell Feliks to give him just five more minutes so he could have listened to whatever it was Arthur had to say instead of taking the easy out because he didn’t know how to handle the strange expectation in Arthur’s smile. He slumped, resigned to let Arthur go for now. “But maybe you’re right and maybe I should wait until he’s sober enough not to leave the damned room when I walk in.”  

His gaze caught on the napkin that had been between Arthur’s fingers and something twisted fond and sharp in his gut at the sight of faint and smudged blue letters scrawled on paper white. 

_He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze..*_

An unexpected splash of red wine across the table and into his lap ruined the last of the words, blurring what Arthur had left into a smear of runny ink and unfinished sentiment. Alfred yelped and looked accusingly at Francis, who dragged a single finger through the emptied contents of his glass and smiled ruefully. 

“What the hell, Francis?” Alfred shouted, heart racing as he tried to wipe the wine away, only to have the napkin tear beneath his touch and rend the remaining lines asunder.

“I’m sorry for my clumsiness, my darling,” Francis said softly, holding Alfred’s angry glare with gentle defiance, “But I thought perhaps it would be better this way. After all, you seem to enjoy blurred lines and unfinished feelings.” 

Alfred flushed with upset and confusion, “I really don’t understand you.” He thought about Arthur and Arthur’s drunk resignation. “Or him.” 

Francis brushed his fingers over his shoulders and murmured, “I know. But perhaps a new year will hold new revelations.” Alfred watched as Francis mopped up the mess he’d made and closed his tired eyes and thought of snow and an arm around shoulders and the picture he kept on his wall. 

“But when you know the right questions to ask, my darling, I assure you the answers will come.” 

“Right,” Alfred said thoughtlessly, “I’ll ask Santa to bring me the solution to this damned equation that I keep getting wrong.” 

Francis laughed and kissed his cheek, “Stranger things have come down the chimney.   Just don’t wait until next year to put it on your list. Merry Christmas, Alfred.” 

Alfred traced his finger through the red wine and listened to the echo of Francis’ footsteps and wondered where Arthur had gone. 

_~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From A.E. Housman’s poem…which is only four lines long…if Francis hadn’t spilled the wine, Alfred would have seen this:
> 
> He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?  
>  He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.  
> I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,  
>  And went with half my life about my ways.


	6. Chapter 6

Had it been any other name on the caller ID, Alfred would have ignored the insistent vibrations against his thigh and kept right on nursing the hangover that was part and parcel of any well done New Year’s celebration. Had it been anyone else, he would have taken another sip of a too spicy Bloody Mary and gone on aimlessly watching seagulls dive into the Caribbean in search of snack, leaving the real world to spill all its mundane and annoying concerns into the voicemail of Prof. Alfred Jones, who couldn’t be bothered when he was sunning, funning, and definitely not thinking in St. Thomas. 

 

But it was “Arthur” that glinted off the too bright screen and with the first ring Alfred’s stomach was in knots and his mind was twisted up in equals parts relief and anxiety at the thought of finally, finally being able to talk to Arthur after weeks of frustrating and saddening silence. He’d gone to Arthur’s house the morning after the disastrous holiday party with a box full of scones from Artie’s favorite bakery and a handful of apologies, only to find that Arthur had already packed up and flown across the pond, leaving Alfred with stale regret. Worried, guilty, and not a little hurt that Arthur had just…gone…without a word, when Arthur was a man who thrived on words, who never had a shortage of words to say, Alfred had gone a little wild in his attempt to get Arthur to speak.

Calls unanswered, messages left in a void, emails that got only a vacation notice in return, trying to wheedle Mrs. Kirkland into admitting that Arthur couldn’t possibly ALWAYS be out running an errand or stepping round to the pub each time Alfred rang—none of it worked and Arthur did something he rarely did and bit his tongue and held his silence. Even on Christmas Day, when Alfred cajoled Irina into calling up the Kirkland residence and asking for Uncle Arthur, Alfred received no direct word, only a secondhand “Happy Christmas,” from a very confused toddler and firsthand, “You are such an ass, Al,” from Mattie.

So on this first day of January, even though Alfred was tired and bleary from one too many tequila sunrises, there was no possibility of not picking-up that call and finally pinning Arthur down long enough to say what he needed to say.

And, maybe, just maybe, since it was a New Year and he was too weary of carrying around the wary curiosity and envious worry that just didn’t jive with his system flow, he’d ask the questions he needed to ask.

“Hey, Artie.” Alfred said softly as he brought the phone to his ear and stood from the wood slats of his beach chair, toes warmed on the too hot sand. “Long time, no talk.”

There was a beat of silence and then Arthur made that little huffing sound that Alfred recognized as his “I regret this already, but I’ve come this far,” sigh.

“Hello, Alfred. Happy new year and all that rot.”

Alfred walked to the edge of the shore, blue waters inches from his feet. He wondered at the gentleness in Arthur’s tone, so unexpected after weeks of silence that had felt so bitter and confused. “Happy new year, buddy.” He struggled to fill the tense quiet and wished he could see Arthur’s face so he could try and better guess how not to fuck things up further. “Um, did you do anything fun?”

Arthur laughed and Alfred could hear the hollowness from across an ocean. “Had tea with my mother and then got quite drunk while watching reruns of _EastEnders_. Not exactly what I had in mind, but a scintillating way to ring in 2013, to be sure.”

Wincing, Alfred sank to the sand, cradling the phone between chin and shoulder as he watched carefree children play in the waves. He tried for levity, tried to bridge the distance in Arthur’s tone, “Sounds like a total blast. I bet you yelled at the characters and told them they were being daft cows, didn’t you?”

“You know me too well,” Arthur muttered and Alfred choked down the desire to say that if that were true, he wouldn’t be flat on his ass in St. Thomas trying to remember how to talk to his best friend. He could hear the drumming of Arthur’s fingers, probably on his mother’s great oak dining room table or maybe on the kitchen counter, a telltale sign that Arthur was nervous. “And you,” Arthur said quietly, “Did you find some satisfactory escape for your holiday?”

Alfred smiled and let grains of sand slip from his palm. “Yeah, I got tired of the snow and bitching at Mattie’s, so I jumped on a plane in search of a little R&R. Found a beach that offered no lectures or paperwork, but plenty of sunshine and cheap beer.”

The line crackled with Arthur’s silence for a long moment before that same damned sigh of resignation whispered in Alfred’s ear. “I see. I’m glad you’re enjoying cavorting about like an undergraduate.”

“Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” Alfred said carelessly, before he closed his eyes and swallowed the lump that had been in his throat since Arthur had failed to greet him with open anger. That sort of confrontation was so much easier to manage than this stilted dance of halfhearted taunts and jokes that fell flat. “But it would be more fun if you were here, Artie,” Alfred cajoled, opening his eyes to the glare of sunshine. He sighed, pushed into feet into the water and told something a little closer to the truth, “I’ve missed you.”

“Have you now?” Arthur scoffed, the barest hint of bitterness and disbelief coloring his words.

Alfred rubbed his chest and felt the sting of Arthur’s disregard, the unspoken accusation, and all the things he’d been wanting to say since Arthur had left him alone and confused with Francis Bonnefoy came rushing out of Alfred’s mouth in one great wave, “Listen, Arthur. You’ve gotta know how sorry I am about the holiday party. Or hell, even the past few months if it seemed like I was ignoring you or too busy or too distracted to be the kind of friend I should. Excuses won’t make it any better, so I won’t give you any and I’ll just say I’m really, really sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.” Alfred took a breath and licked his dry lips, wishing his head would stop hurting and the knots around his heart would untie. He softened and pressed the phone closer, as though somehow Arthur would know that he was serious, that he meant what he said if they were just a little nearer. “I’ve been an ass.”

The waves brushed over his toes and up his ankles, the tide filling the emptiness until Arthur finally sighed and muttered, “That’s nothing new under the sun.” Alfred frowned and wondered what part of his apology had gone wrong until Arthur sighed yet again and Alfred could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, praying for the forbearance he so often claimed was necessary for dealing with Alfred. “Besides, it really isn’t your fault. You are who you are, and I’ve always known this.”

“Then why the hell did you disappear on me?” Alfred blurted, slapping his hand over his mouth as he remembered that he was trying to be contrite and calm so Arthur wouldn’t pull another Houdini. “Sorry, sorry,” he rushed, “I just don’t get it. If you’re not mad…why the cold shoulder?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t upset, you dolt,” Arthur said dryly, “I just said it wasn’t necessarily your fault that you’re a bumbling fool with all the tact and sensitivity of a bull in a china shop and that I forgot that I needed to continually take your uncharted ignorance into continuous account.”

Alfred blinked and tried to process Arthur’s litany, mumbling a confused, “Thanks, I think? Or sorry, again?” He scratched his head with sandy fingers, wishing not for the first time that he could flip to the back of some textbook and find the solution to this problem. At the very least, it would have been nice to have a cheat sheet of formulas he could use to know what to say to make things go back to normal. “So, um,” Alfred fumbled, feeling like one of the poor new kids that wandered from building to building those first weeks in August looking for the right classroom, “Are we OK?” He paused, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper, “Are you OK, Arthur?”

“I needed some time to think,” Arthur said slowly, “And you are too loud and distracting for me to string together two rational thoughts, so I just…stopped talking for awhile, until I could make sense of any of it. I’m not certain I’ve found any good answers, but no amount of wishing it otherwise is going to make 2+2 equal anything other than 4, right, Alfred?” Arthur went quiet for a moment and Alfred listened to him breathe and wished he understood what made Arthur feel so lost, to sound so oddly defeated. Alfred dug his fingers into the wet sand and Arthur laughed weakly, “But then I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like two day old socks, and I hoped that you were suffering a similar fate, even if I hadn’t been there to help inflict it, so I had to call.”

“Ha ha, always a real laugh riot, Artie.” Alfred mocked absently, unable to take the easy out Arthur was offering, still caught in the net of Arthur’s bewildering loneliness. He wanted to run through the door Arthur had opened and make jokes and pretend that they hadn’t just spent two weeks not talking, but Alfred knew that he owed Arthur more than evasion, more than platitudes and quick fixes that didn’t really do a damned thing to make either of them feel better. This time it was his turn to sigh as he stared at the sea and finally took the plunge. “Hey, Arthur. Can I ask you something?”

“I am sure that you can,” Arthur snarked cautiously, “But  _may_ you ask something? I suppose so.”

Alfred couldn’t even fake the requisite laugh, fingers clenched in the sand as he pushed ahead, “Did something happen this summer while you were in Italy? Maybe something that’s been on your mind this past semester?”

“In Italy?” Arthur asked and his confusion sound genuine, tinged in Arthur’s preferred tone of do-not-waste-my-time irritation. “No, it was a perfectly ordinary trip. Why on earth would ask about that now, six months after the fact?”

Alfred chewed on his lip and wondered how mad Arthur was going to be that Alfred had known about the postcard and  _Dearest_  for so long and said nothing. He hedged, “Well, I, uh. Um.” He cursed his cowardice and let out a deep breath, “Shit, Artie. Awhile back you left a book in my office and when I picked it up, a letter you’d never sent fell from the pages…and I know I’m no expert when it comes to poetry, as you’re so fond of pointing out…but it sure seemed like a love letter to me.”

“Oh good Lord,” Arthur whispered. Alfred winced as Arthur’s voice crept steadily up the register of surprise and panic, “Jesus bleeding fuck, Alfred. You read  _that_? And never said a damned word? Just let me linger in ignorance of your feelings on the matter for months?”

Alfred scrambled, “I know, I know! It’s just…it was so personal and I had no idea you felt that way for someone and I didn’t have a clue how to start that conversation— _Hey, Artie, looks like you got your heartbroken by someone you never even bothered to mention to me, so let me know if you want me to bring over pizza and an action movie so we can talk it out_.”

“You complete and utter idiot,” Arthur breathed out, cutting Alfred’s rant off at the knees. Alfred bit his stupid tongue and wondered at the strange mixture of relief and disappointment in Arthur’s voice. Arthur laughed, dry and brittle like the sand that chafed his skin, “And here I find that 2+2 still equals 4.”

Alfred didn’t know what those numbers were supposed to mean in Arthur-speak, but he knew enough to know that even though it was way too late in the game to make up for all his mistakes, he’d come too far now to turn back. “So, did you ever send the postcard?”

“….I did not,” Arthur said slowly, sounding very far away.

“Why not?” Alfred asked quietly, wondering why the answer mattered so much.

Arthur sighed a sigh that Alfred had never heard before, tired and too honest. “It hardly matters any longer, but I suppose when I wrote it I wasn’t ready to send it, and when I was ready to send it, I realized that my intended would not have wanted to receive such feelings from me. The foolish wishes of a foolish man for someone who will never be ready to listen.”

“So you never said anything at all?”

Arthur laughed bitterly, “I said so many things so many times. But I suppose we never spoke the same language. Even now, we talk at cross purposes.”

“I guess I get that,” Alfred conceded reluctantly. His shoulders stung from too much sun, his head still hurt from too much party and not enough sleep, but nothing ached more than the rareness of Arthur so wistful and vulnerable. “But you’ll never know for sure if you don’t tell them how you feel.”

“I know enough to know that if equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me,*” Arthur murmured, trailing off into silence as Alfred thought of missives unsent and firelight poems unread and wine ruined words on a cocktail napkin. “No. It is better left unsaid and I shall learn to let go of this wasted love.”

“Who wouldn’t love you?” Alfred said without thinking, startled by the flare of envy he’d tried to ignore all these many months for this  _Dearest_  who’d been so carefully hidden and treasured. Jealousy churned with anger for the kind of person who didn’t know what it was to have a man as wonderful as Arthur. He rushed on breathlessly, “You’re clever and funny and even though you can be a real dick, you’re also one of the kindest and most decent people I’ve ever met. Jesus, Arthur, you’ve got nice eyes, a voice that charm the pants off anyone listening in two mile range and when you bother to do it, you’ve got a smile that could turn…”

“Stop, Alfred, stop,” Arthur pleaded and Alfred stuttered to a halt without finishing his litany of praise only to find that Arthur was laughing, harsh and rough and not at all pleasant like laughter ought to be. Alfred went quiet. Arthur rasped, “Please, spare me your well-intentioned words before I’m forced to go get blindingly drunk.” Arthur snorted derisively, “Oh, fucking hell, I’m going to do that anyway, but just no more…please.”

“Alright,” Alfred promised softly, though he had a thousand other things he wanted to say to convince Arthur that there wasn’t a person in the world who wouldn’t be damned lucky to have him. “I’ll stop, though I wish I could cheer you up.”

“I know you mean well, you idiot,” Arthur said tiredly, “You almost always mean well and that’s what makes you so bloody awful. And lovely, in your own horrid way.”

Alfred smiled thinly and pressed his hand over his still racing heart as he let all the words he still wished to say wash out to sea. He forced cheer into his voice and gave them both the out they probably should have taken five minutes before, “You sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Artie. Maybe you should make learning the fine art of complimenting a new year’s resolution.”

This time, Arthur’s laugh was less harsh, but no less false than Alfred’s joviality. “Only if you resolve to give up acts of grand stupidity.”

“As I am a very awesome and famous professor and therefore incapable of acts of stupidity, I’m amenable to this agreement,” Alfred said magnanimously. Arthur made a halfhearted and rude noise, not even bothering to take the next card in their played out game. Alfred swallowed an anxious and worried sigh as he stood from the sand and watched the tide rush around his toes, attempting to everything in its way out to sea. “We can keep tabs on each others’ progress when we’re both back home. Deal?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Arthur said quietly, once more serious. “I need to go.”

“Hey, Artie,” Alfred murmured heavily, knowing that the conversation was over, that neither of them could pretending everything was good as new. “Come home soon.”

“Happy new year, Alfred. Be well.”

The dial-tone echoed in his ear and Arthur was gone and Alfred had gotten the words he’d thought he’d wanted and been left wanting even more. Alfred turned away from the ocean, no longer so interested in surf and sun, craving the solace of a darkened hotel room until everything burned just a less intensely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From Auden’s “The More Loving One,” which is so beautiful and sad.


	7. Chapter 7

At the end of January, the students returned to campus and so did Arthur. But instead of the snow that had made AU seem so soft and quiet in the early weeks of winter, rain and wind came with the deluge of rested minds and bodies ready to crack open the books and tackle the spring semester. Arthur had returned with wit that seemed dulled and distant, and he came on with the cheerful charm too much, too fast in an attempt to make it all work again. Alfred couldn’t say they both weren’t giving it the old college try, but Arthur was still morosely contemplative and Alfred was a little lonely and a lot lost.

He’d tried, at first, to broach the subject of Arthur’s great unrequited love, but Arthur had just stared at him for a long, tense moment before shaking his head and muttering that he was still trying to muddle his way through that cock-up and when he’d decided what to do once and for all, Alfred would be the first to know. Every night, Alfred went to bed and thought about Arthur’s hidden sadness and the color of his eyes. And once, just as he fell asleep, he spared an honest thought for the burn of envy he felt in his chest each time he wondered just a little too long about  _Dearest._

Two weeks later, it was February and the rain had yet to cease. The skies were gray and the grounds were wet, the hallways filled with the sound of squeaky shoes and umbrellas dripping on tile, and Alfred found that not even the adorably confused enthusiasm of his new crop of minions in  _ME 1030: Introduction to Robotics and Mechatronics_  could brighten his clouded spirits.

The kids looked at him expectantly (and, yeah, he knew he shouldn’t think of them as kids when they were nineteen and doubtless engaging in all sorts of adult activities, but they were just so young) as Alfred tried to summon the enthusiasm for which he was so famous. But the rain was splattering against the classroom windows and last night’s beers and wings with Arthur had been as stilted and weird as every other meeting since the new year, and Alfred felt too tired to do more than smile and tell the kids to turn to page three-hundred-and-ninety-four. The laugh he got for that little bit of cleverness was enough to carry them all through a long fifty minutes of a lecture that was so scattered Arthur would have said he was continuing his campaign for absent-minded professor of the year.

Well, Alfred thought as he clicked to the last slide and set his students free, Arthur would say something so endearingly predictable if they could remember how to be predictably endearing. He leaned against the podium and turned off his laptop, not relishing the walk back to his office in the driving rain. Alfred thought about the flyer he’d seen that morning tacked to one of the countless student boards, thought about the broad black letters spelling out Professor Arthur Kirkland, inviting one and all to hear him giving a reading at noon. 

He flicked off the classroom lights and looked out the window to the library across the quad and reached for his umbrella. Alfred knew that Arthur hadn’t asked him to come, probably would rather that he didn’t have any of his nearest and dearest in the audience, settled in with the girls and boys that swooned for his sexy English accent. but he also knew it had been too long since he’d had any glimpse of Arthur in his element, since he’s had the pleasure of seeing Arthur smile with any sort of honesty. 

Besides, the oak paneled reading room at the Foyle Library was warm, dry, and cozy and Alfred could sneak into the back and climb the stairs to the balcony above the podium and listen to everything Arthur had to say without ever making his presence known. He’d come out of the rain, watch and learn, and then steal away once more to his lab and his instruments with Arthur none the wiser.

At ten past noon, after hurrying across the damp grassy knoll that separated the science quad from the haven of the liberal arts, Alfred left his umbrella in a crowded and soaking bucket and gingerly made his way up old stairs that had a fondness for squeaking. But fortune favored his bravery in invading Arthur’s inner sanctum, and the sound of his heavy wet footsteps was masked by the rapturous applause that greeted Arthur’s first reading. Alfred smiled at the sound echoing off the walls and risked a peek over the balcony railing that separated him from Prof. Kirkland and his adoring fans. 

The smile turned soft and wistful when Alfred recognized the book spread on the podium, resting innocently in front of the microphone that carried Arthur’s voice. It was the same little volume that had been left on his desk once upon a time and Alfred swore he could see the now bent corners of a postcard that hadn’t left his mind in months still wedged between the pages. 

It seemed that Arthur wasn’t so ready to let go as he’d said in that awful phone call on New Year’s Day. The sight of it, a little tattered but whole and kept, was all the evidence Alfred needed to prove that Arthur wasn’t really okay, wasn’t over this love affair that Alfred had unknowingly crashed. It was more than enough to stoke the jealous embers he kept trying to quash and Alfred flushed with the angry, petty thought of Arthur cherishing that card that brought him nothing but misery and wished he could convince Arthur that he was worth so much more. 

He took his embarrassed blush and sank into one of the musty armchairs wedged as the room went quiet and Arthur cleared his throat. Alfred closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing more than listening, tried not to wonder why he’d kept the postcard if he really had no intention of ever sending it to  _Dearest_. 

_“Busy old fool, unruly Sun,_

_Why dost thou thus,_

_Through windows, and through curtains call on us?”_

Arthur’s voice was low and steady as he spoke, rising and falling in a cadence that Alfred knew that no program could ever hope to replicate. It was a rhythm of assurance, words intoned with a quiet passion and Alfred knew that these lines and stanzas were surely etched on Arthur’s bones as surely as circuits and gears were wired into his DNA. His cheeks warmed as let Arthur’s words twine around his imagination, the precise intimacy of his tone thick and heavy in his ears. 

_Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run ?_

_Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide_

_Late school-boys and sour prentices,_

_Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,_

_Call country ants to harvest offices ;_

_Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,_

_Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.*_

Behind closed eyes, in the dream that Arthur’s poem wove, there was a bed and the sunshine he’d missed for weeks was peeking through a window left open so he could feel the breeze of spring in his hair. He thought how funny it was to call the sun a saucy wretch, when Alfred had always liked the way a lover looked in the morning, rumpled and blinking into daylight. He lost the thread of the poem and only felt the rumble and rasp of Arthur’s voice. In his daydream, Alfred smile and stretched beneath the hand that stroked down his back beneath the sheets, wicked fingers telling him to ignore the morning and stay wrapped up too tight and near. It was nice, waking up warm with the sun on his skin and Arthur’s voice in his ear, murmuring to him as he turned his head over on the pillow and wondered if it was worth the loss of that pretty tone to be kissed good morning. 

Alfred’s eyes flew open as applause thundered in the cozy room and his heart thundered in his chest, the vision of Arthur in the morning still rippling in his thoughts as he pushed out of the chair and beat a hasty escape down the stairs and out into the pouring rain. When he’d caught his breath enough to see anything other than the fantasy of Arthur’s lips parted around words that were definitely going to pass from his lips to Alfred’s, he realized he’d left his umbrella and cursed himself a total idiot. 

Alfred slumped against the brick wall of the library and watched the students hurrying through the room, listening to the muffled applause that floated from the cracked window of the reading room. His heart still raced and his throat felt dry as he tried to reassure himself that daydreams were nothing more than that. Dreams, the product of an idle imagination that had spent too many hours thinking of who it could be that Arthur loved and not finding the words to ask that question because he wasn’t sure he could stand to know. He hadn’t thought to worry about little fantasies that popped up here and there in quiet moments or lonely days on sunny beach. And, sure, today wasn’t the first time he’d spared a thought for what it might be like to kiss Arthur when he frowned to see if he’d smile for Alfred. But that’s all it had been—speculation, cooking up a hypothesis he’d never test because he wasn’t sure he had the right skills to collect the kind of data he’d need to prove it true.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to tell himself he wasn’t going absolutely crazy.  He insisted to his fast beating heart and his still hot cheeks that he was just tired and worried that he and Arthur wouldn’t ever quite be right again and somehow he’d ended up swooning just like a bright-eyed undergraduate under the spell of Arthur’s silvered tongue speaking good sounding words. It didn’t matter much, a fragment of a conjured fantasy, not when he and Arthur were still on such rocky ground and that postcard was still hidden between the pages of Arthur’s favorite book.

It didn’t have to mean anything at all.

Alfred let out a shaky breath and a weak laugh as he heard applause once more. Arthur really was very good, Alfred thought ruefully and wondered if he’d ever bother to tell Arthur that he’d heard him read, that he’d been just as charmed as everyone else even though he knew what Arthur looked like half-dead from a hangover and knew what he sounded like when he was furious or disappointed or secretly pleased. 

Alfred licked the rain from his lips and decided not to wait out the storm, not to wait out Arthur and his adoring throngs, and slowly walked across the muddy lawn with his hands in his pockets and Arthur on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From John Donne’s “The Sun Rising.” (For Jess. With my love).


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh for God’s sake! If you were a student in my class, I would throw you out!”

Alfred jerked forward in his chair, startled from his lazy boredom by Arthur’s low hiss of disapproval, which was far less appealing but far safer than the soft, low murmur that had whispered in his dreams and forced him to get up at an unholy hour of the morning to avoid any further sleepy speculation on the taste of Arthur’s kiss. Arthur scowled and gave him an entirely different sort of smack—open palm thwacking his knee with as much force as his frown and the furrow of his forehead.

“You’re as bad as a freshman on Friday morning,” Arthur taunted.

“Maybe your students fall asleep. Mine don’t want to miss a minute of my beautiful face and sparkling wit!” Alfred rolled his eyes and hoped he wasn’t blushing, because he wasn’t sure that he was really to be blamed for falling asleep when Dean Germania had one of those monotone voices that could bore even the biggest brown noser on faculty to tears. He loved the old man, but there was nothing less scintillating that spending two hours in a crowded conference room listening to the steady drone of a man not born to public speaking when he had a thousand other things he could be doing that didn’t involve sitting pressed too close to Prof. Kirkland.

“Such a child,” Arthur whispered with malicious glee, and Alfred thought that he must have been rather bored as well to resort to lowbrow jibes. It familiarity of Arthur’s smug sneer and his own smiling lack of outrage ached a little.

“What do you want from me, Artie? Faculty Meetings aren’t exactly the highlight on my agenda.” Alfred did a scan of the room and found that he wasn’t the only one with glazed eyes and slack jawed lack of interest in Germania’s overview of the college’s new budgeting process and streamlined fiscal management. “Besides, what kind of tyrant schedules these things the day before spring break?”

Arthur shifted in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees as he kept his eyes firmly on the front of the room. “The kind of tyrant who’s smart enough to know we’d all be fleeing this place like rats on a sinking ship if we didn’t have a mandatory reason to be here.” Arthur kicked Alfred’s ankle, “Now do shut up and try to spare me your snoring.”

Alfred bit his lip to quell the urge to inform Arthur that he definitely didn’t snore, wishing they were anywhere but stuck in the meeting of doom so they could keep going, keeping picking and poking one another like the good days of yore. It had been so long since Arthur had bothered to berate him without that lingering tension that Alfred couldn’t dispel no matter how many jokes he cracked or how many opportunities he provided for Arthur to engage in his favorite sport of Alfred-baiting.

Worse, much worse, it had been so many weeks since the incident in the library with the poetry that had been the spark for all these thoughts that Alfred couldn’t stop having. It was March and he was still missing his sanity; still desperately trying to find the part of his brain that remembered that they’d been friends forever and there was no reason to break something that already felt a little broken just because he’d developed some weird affinity for the sound of Arthur’s voice and the fountain pen ink that dotted the tips of his fingers. He’d always known these things, always been aware of Arthur’s quirks and dubious charms, had whole sections of his memory labeled, “Artie’s Awesome Weirdness,” and he couldn’t quite figure out when the coding had started to shift into something more complex.

All he knew is that this new and unsettling line of thought that he wished would just go away made it difficult to sit next to Arthur and not wonder how that rich, rough voice would sound wrapped around his name.

Alfred shifted in his chair and shook that thought right out of his head, looked at the clock and thanked his lucky stars that there were only seven more minutes of Germania to endure. (Say what he would about the man’s speaking abilities, at least the Dean was punctual to a fault, unlike Roma—who would go on forever and ever if he happened to stumbled on to a subject he liked.) He tried to pay attention to the announcements of faculty achievements, department staffing changes and upcoming retirements, but Arthur’s weird nervous twitching was distracting as hell. For someone who had just bitched at him for poor meeting etiquette, Artie sure as hell wasn’t setting a good example.

Alfred turned to give Arthur a dose of his own medicine for squirming like a five year old on the first day of kindergarten, when Germania beat him to the punch.

“Finally,” the old man intoned, cold gaze landing squarely in the tiny space between Alfred’s slumped shoulder and Arthur’s constant fidgeting, “I would like to offer my congratulations to Professor Kirkland of the English Department on being named the fall 2013 Visiting Scholar at Cambridge University. I am certain you will represent AU well during your appointment.”

Alfred’s jaw dropped as fast as his heart, while the room broke out into muttered whispers and murmurs of approval. He whipped his head to the side to find Arthur wide-eyed and glaring surprised daggers at Germania, as though this little announcement was as big of a shock to him as it was to Alfred. Alfred opened his mouth but everything he wanted to say was drowned out by Germania’s slow, steady clap that ended the meeting, followed by the sudden rush of people who wanted to give their colleague a handshake of congratulations or a fake smile that barely hid their envy.

Alfred just stared, glued to his seat by shock and something he strongly suspected was hurt that he was finding out something this important at the same time as everyone else, like he didn’t matter at all in the grand scheme of Arthur Kirkland. His rational mind insisted that couldn’t be true but his selfish feelings wanted his feet to get up and walk the hell out. But Arthur’s rare pleading look wormed under all his silly hurt feelings and reminded him that he’d already spent enough time being kind of a crappy friend this year, so the least he could do was wait and then shake Arthur’s hand and wish him well.

Ten minutes later, the conference room was empty and they were finally alone. Arthur’s feathers still seemed a little ruffled and Alfred knew his gears were way out of alignment, but he tried to smile gamely and do the best he could to mean it when he said:

“Congrats on the big news, Artie! Cambridge, that’s one hell of a coup!”

Arthur sank into his chair and looked at his watch, wincing. “I can’t believe Germania announced it like that to the entire staff.”

“Oh,” Alfred said, feeling stung, “So it wasn’t exactly news to you?”

“I only got final word this morning,” Arthur said hurriedly, expression pinched and intense with worry. Alfred stared at the ink stained fingers that suddenly touched his knee, gently splayed over his dips and grooves. “I meant to tell you after the meeting. I had wanted you to be the first to know, well, other than the Dean and my students who I had to tell right away.” Arthur took a great breath and Alfred looked up and saw that he was letting his own stupid feelings ruin his best friend’s big day. Arthur’s voice went soft, “But I really did want to be the one to tell you.”

Alfred shook his head and patted the hand on his knee, smiling gently, “Hey, it’s all good. You don’t owe me consideration like that. We aren’t married or anything.”

“I suppose not,” Arthur said quietly, gaze flicking down to their hands resting on Alfred’s knee as he slowly pulled his fingers away. “Nevertheless, I would have wanted to share it with you.”

Flushed, Alfred bit his lip, murmuring, “Even though its all so sudden, I’m really happy for you, Arthur.” He hoped that Arthur believed him, that he couldn’t hear the tiny little bit of him that lied.

Arthur sighed, “Its not so sudden, really.”

“What do you mean?” Alfred asked, frowning in confusion as he watched Arthur stand up and begin to pace up and down the rows of chairs.

“I’ve wanted to teach somewhere new for quite some time,” Arthur said softly, still pacing and looking anywhere but at Alfred’s ever worsening case of perplexity. “I’ll always have a fondness for AU, but we’ve been here for so many years and some days I wake up thinking that I will never do more than wanders these halls.” He paused and turned to Alfred, pinning him in time and place with a searching gaze. Arthur spread his hands before him and shrugged, “Haven’t you ever wanted something different?”

Alfred swallowed, blinked, thought of all the happy years they’d spent here as students and now as teachers, and realized that he had figured they’d always be together in the same place and when schedules allowed..at the same time. Together.

“You never said anything,” Alfred said, whetting his lips and staring out the window at the familiar knoll made green by all the rains of February. “I didn’t know you wanted to leave.”

“I also had reasons to want to stay,” Arthur touched his shoulder so gently he thought it might have been the breeze rather than the brush of fingers. Alfred regretted his decision to abandon the view of the outdoors for the wry sadness of Arthur’s smile. “But when I was in England over the holidays, I met with a colleague and she told me she’d like to nominate me for the position…” Arthur let his hand drop and Alfred looked away. “And at the time, the dream of a new beginning was more than I could resist.”

“You shouldn’t have to resist,” Alfred sighed, pushing out of his chair on legs that felt weary. He held out his hand to Arthur, “You’re an awesome professor and a great writer, and any university would be lucky to have you.” Arthur blinked rapidly and Alfred tried not to stare at his reddening cheeks. “I’m real proud of you, Artie.”

“So sentimental,” Arthur murmured thickly as he clasped Alfred’s hand and looked away. He cleared his throat and dropped Alfred’s fingers that had curled just a little too tight for a little too long. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure I shall take the position.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t you take it? It sounds like a the opportunity of a lifetime.” Alfred’s stomach twisted into a double knot. He short circuited any desire to rejoice, knowing that wasn’t what either of them needed right now, even if he wanted to take Arthur’s hand again and demand that he stay here at AU so Alfred wouldn’t be missing him.

“I have some verses that are yet unfinished,” Arthur said cryptically. Alfred frowned and wanted to push, to demand that Arthur speak English when it came to something this important, but Arthur looked at his watch again and cursed under his breath. “Damn, I have to go teach.” He gathered his bag and cast an anxious glance at Alfred. Arthur licked his lips and ran a hand through his messy hair, “I’m off to London tomorrow for further discussions, but…I’d like to speak to you before I go, if you can spare the time.”

“Sure,” Alfred said without hesitation, still reeling from all the twists and turns and tumbles that were never supposed to be part of something as boring as Faculty Meeting. He looked at Arthur and wondered how much of him he’d never really known all that well if all this time Arthur had been itching for another adventure on other shores. “Come over to my place tonight, I’ll be around. We can talk about whatever for however long you need.”

“Very well,” Arthur laughed, a nervous and brittle thing. “Tonight it is.”

Alfred watched him turn away and straighten his shoulders and tried not to think about what other bombs Arthur could possibly drop. Instead he thought it was another damned shame that Arthur should be so tense and not a little worried when this was a big day.

“Hey, Artie,” Alfred said softly to the back that walked away from him. “Congratulations. Really.”

Arthur stilled but did not turn back to see Alfred’s smile that this time didn’t lie.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“See you, later?”

Arthur disappeared from the room, his murmured, “Later, yes. At last,” almost lost in the echo of his footsteps.

Alfred slumped in his chair and closed his eyes, chasing the dream he’d been having before Arthur had woke him and introduced him to the possibility of a new reality.

~~

“You can come in, you know,” Alfred joked weakly, leaning against the doorjamb as he gazed at Arthur standing on his front porch, looking as nervous as Alfred felt, but somehow resolved while Alfred was mired still in conflicted confusion.

In the distracted hours he’d spent waiting for night and for Arthur, he’d attempted to convince himself that he needed to be nothing but supportive, to do nothing more than encourage Arthur to go do what he needed to do—without worrying about what Alfred or anyone else wanted. Besides, he had told himself halfheartedly as he watched the clock and wondered what it was Arthur needed to hear from him, maybe distance and time would help fix what had been broken.

But now Arthur was here on his steps, holding something in his hands and looking for all the world like he either wanted to throw up or wage a war, looking at Alfred so intensely he thought he might never remember another color than green. The night was cool and promised yet more rain, but the air between the lean of his body and the hunch of Arthur’s shoulders felt like a mine field waiting to be crossed.

“No, I don’t think I can come inside,” Arthur said slowly, shaking his head, bottom lip folding under his teeth as Alfred just stared and wondered what the hell was going on. Arthur straightened, like a soldier standing to orders. “If I come inside I’ll see all your familiar silly things and I’ll let myself talk of your idiot’s taste in decorating instead of saying what I’ve come to say.”

Bewildered, Alfred stepped over the threshold but left the door open, the light from the hallway making shadows of their bodies on the porch wood. “Um, okay,” Alfred drawled warily, heart racing ridiculously fast for no good reason because this was just Arthur standing at his door with his hands behind his back. “So, what’s up?”

Arthur stepped closer. “I told you that when I figured out what to about my great matter of heart you would be the first to know.” Arthur let out sigh and brought forward hands holding what looked a postcard Alfred would have known anywhere and a letter he had never seen before. “So, here I am, at last.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alfred said thoughtlessly over the lost and uncertain rush of his feelings spiraling towards a love letter unsent. He clenched sweaty palms against his side and watched the slow mingling of their shadows as Arthur inched nearer. “So what did you figure out?”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, I decided you were right,” Arthur murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “I’ll never know for certain if I don’t spell it out directly for the oblivious, frustrating, idiotic object of my affections.”

Alfred’s heart jumped as Arthur’s eyes opened once more and shaking fingers splayed over his chest, pressing the postcard and the letter against his shirt. Alfred still, trapped by touch and the warmth in Arthur’s gaze and the gentle curve of his smile as Arthur came impossibly close and whispered against his lips, “So these are for you. I have come to confess to you, Dearest.”

Arthur’s kiss was soft and fleeting, no more than a brush of sweetness to the corner of his mouth, but the word and the embrace echoed so loudly in Alfred’s mind and in his heart that by the time he had stopped wondering how it was in all their years together they’d never done anything quite so wonderful and opened his eyes, he was standing alone on his porch clutching love letters to his heart.

Shell shocked and still tasting Arthur on his lips, Alfred looked down the long darkness of his street and thought perhaps it was best that Arthur had dropped this bomb and gone so he wouldn’t have to see Alfred go all to pieces when he stepped back inside and closed his door and slid down the wall. He turned the worn postcard that had fallen in his lap over in his hands and re-read  _Dearest, Dearest, Dearest_  until he could hear Arthur’s voice whispering to him again and again and again.

Hysterical laughter threatened at the tip of his tongue as he opened the envelope with fingers that fumbled and a mind that wondered if he had just been given love long unrequited. He closed his eyes and thumped his head against the wall to clear in search of equilibrium, but there was none to be had in a reality where he’d missed the biggest point of them all. He almost put the letter away, uncertain that he could withstand any more, until Alfred remembered Arthur’s bittersweet smile and the way he’d sighed when they’d kissed, as though the first time was also the last.

The thought twisted sharp and painful in his chest, rousing him from his fearful confusion.

Resolved to be half as brave as Arthur deserved, Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and unfolded the plain white paper covered in Arthur’s beautiful, looping scrawl and read.

_March 29th, 2013_

_Alfred,_

_For so long I have labored over whether to say anything, that now when it comes time for me to tell you all that I’ve only whispered in verse and hinted in rhyme, I find I have not the energy to worry over how to say it._

_I am a man of letters, so perhaps you would expect that I should tell you in the words of Auden that “I’ll love you till the ocean is folded and hung up to dry*,” or borrow from Mrs. Barrett-Browning’s repertoire and write that “I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach**.”_

_I could tell you in the stolen stanzas of poets far better than I. I could transcribe volumes of literature’s great expressions of desire and adoration._

_But I will not._

_Because you are you and I am me…and for once I wish for words that we both understand, even if you do not feel the same, even if you will not return these sentiments, I wish to tell you in the plainest words I know that I love you._

_So. There you have it. I trust that this should be clear enough, that you should no longer have to worry and wonder over the mysterious claimant on my heart, because, God help me, it is you and has always been you._

_But just in case you are even more oblivious than I had thought humanly possible, I’ll tell you once more, without metaphor or simile, without reservation or expectation._

_I love you._

_Arthur_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “As I Walked Out One Evening, ” Auden
> 
> ** How Do I Love Thee,” Elizabeth Barrett Browning


	9. Chapter 9

_March 30th, 2013_

  
“Alfred, my darling. It is 8:30am on the first day of Spring Break. I do hope you have a compelling reason for being here…” 

“Oh, I do. I really, really do.” Alfred nodded his head vigorously and pushed his way into Francis’ apartment, ignoring the fact that he’d obviously gotten the man out of bed and definitely not pay attention to the red marks on his friend’s bare chest. He didn’t care to reflect on who might have been the instigator of Francis’ mussed hair and bitten skin when he had far greater concerns of his own. Instead he flung himself on Francis’ couch and covered his eyes with arm.

“You look terrible,” Francis said, shoving his legs off the sofa and settling next to him, “As though you haven’t slept in days.”

“Didn’t sleep at all last night,” Alfred confessed, “Couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop going over every little word and gesture and anything that maybe, might have been a poetic hint, trying to find out when this all started.” He laughed wildly and chanced a look at Francis from beneath the safety of his arm. “And then I had to think about me and everything I thought I knew and wanted, trying to figure out what on earth I’m supposed to do.”

Francis patted his thigh and plucked his arm from his forehead, smiling as he said, “It might help those of us who have not yet had coffee nor possess the talent to read minds, if you provided a little context, my sweet.”

“Huh?” Alfred grunted wearily, still too mired in the endless cycle of _Dearest_ and  _Cambridge_  and  _I love you_  to have much room for thinking of anything or anyone else.

“Tell me what catastrophe has brought you to my door in such a state of disarray,” Francis rolled his eyes and flicked his nose, snapping him out his Arthur Kirkland panic. Francis softened, brushing the hair from his face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Everything? Nothing?” Alfred said tiredly, trying to describe the system overload of feelings that Arthur’s letter had caused. Arthur loved him and Alfred was terrified. Arthur loved him and Alfred was ecstatic.

Arthur loved him and Alfred thought maybe he might love Alfred a little bit too.

All he knew for certain was that Arthur loved him last night and everything was different this morning.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my darling,” Francis said, smile gentle but amused.

Alfred sighed and wished he weren’t blushing as he confessed lowly, “Arthur’s in love with me.”

Francis eyebrows arched impressively high and Alfred would have enjoyed the rare experience of catching Bonnefoy off-guard had Francis not murmured, “You figured it out at last?”

Annoyed, Alfred swatted Francis’ hand from his forehead, grumbling, “No. Arthur came over last night and just laid it all on me.” Alfred closed his eyes to runaway from Francis’ concerned curiosity. He fell into the moment that had run on a continuous loop since that fleeting embrace on his front porch. “Stupid Arthur. Kissing me and giving me love letters and then the bastard runs away to London and leaves me all alone holding his damned heart in my clumsy hands.”

“Arthur finally made his move,” Francis mumbled absently and Alfred wondered not for the first time since his twentieth re-read of Arthur’s bombshell letter just how long this had been going on, just how long he and Arthur had been dancing to a song he hadn’t been able to hear. Alfred sighed and tried to cover his face again, only to have Francis steal his hand and shake his head. “I understand that you feel overwhelmed, but you needn’t be so doubtful of your clumsy hands. My darling, no matter your blunders or your, ah, obliviousness, you have always taken such care of Arthur.”

“He takes good care of me, too,” Alfred said, smiling faintly, “Even though he’s usually pretty cranky while doing it.”

“That’s our Arthur!”

“Yeah,” Alfred murmured, closing his eyes and remembering late nights in his office fueled by shitty coffee and trading barbs. Remembered Arthur reading a poem to his favorite little girl and how adorably annoyed he’d been to be caught out in such a moment of unveiled sweetness. “That’s my Arthur.”

Francis hummed and released his hand. “So, what will you do now that you know AU’s worst kept secret?”

“That’s just it, Francis,” Alfred sighed, struggling to sit up. “I don’t know what to do. I just know I don’t want to screw it up and hurt him.”

“The worst you can do is nothing,” Francis said, expression kind but stern. “If you don’t return his feelings, tell him so he can move on once and for all.” Alfred bit his lip and looked away. Francis squeezed his shoulder and inched closer. “But I think you and I both know that is not the case. But my advice remains much the same. If you do return his feelings, tell him so you can both move on…together.”

Alfred swallowed and fidgeted, “It’s just…he’s my best friend and we’ve known each other so long and there’s so much to lose if I get it wrong.” Alfred looked at Francis, who just smiled patiently and waved for him to go on. “Its a complex situation and I tried to think of all the different ways I could miscalculate or he could misfire and then the whole program would come crashing down and we’d be left with a heap of junk and broken parts.”

“Love is not a algorithm!” Francis chastised, laughing gently. “But consider this, while you can never have total assurance that a relationship will work—there’s no such thing as absolutely no margin of error if you will—you have to at least run the experiment to enjoy the results.” Francis smiled and stood from the couch, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. “The only question that remains is whether or not you want to do the research, whether or not you want to test the hypothesis that you and Arthur could be great together.”

Alfred pulled off his glasses and blinked rapidly, staring at a blurry Francis as his heart started racing as hard as it had when Arthur’s lips had touched the corner of his too surprised mouth. His body ached for sleep and his eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but Alfred was damned sure he’d never felt this exhilarated in his life, running on wild hope and reckless ambition. He was terrified and he was ecstatic and he was may more than just a little bit in loved.

He slid his glasses on and grinned at Francis who grinned at him and winked.

“So, tell me, darling, what on earth are you still doing here?”

~~

_March 31st, 2013_

**“Hi! You’ve reached Matthew Williams Jones. I’m not available to take your call at the moment, so leave me a message and I’ll get back to you…** ”

“Mattie! Hey, it’s Alfred. So, um, I’m know I’m supposed to be driving up to your place right now, but something’s come up. Like the biggest something that can come up and, well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I’m probably not making a lot of sense, but I promise to explain everything to you and Katya when I get back. Don’t worry—everything’s fine….I think you’ll be happy for me, Mattie.

Tell my favorite gal that her favorite uncle is real sorry he won’t be coming over to play this week, but he loves her and he’ll bring her a really big present next time he sees her.

So…I guess that’s it. Give my love to Katya and Irina.

And wish me luck!”

~~

_“We are now making our final descent into London-Heathrow International Airport. The local time is 9:30 GMT on April 1st. On behalf of the captain and the crew of UA Flight 143, I welcome you to London and thank you for flying United Airlines. We hope you have a very pleasant stay in England.”_

The problem, Alfred soon discovered, with spending an outrageous amount of money to spontaneously fly across the pond with no greater plan than finding Arthur so they could have a little chit-chat about the etiquette of confessing love and then hightailing the the hell out of town, was that he did not in fact have a plan. Sure, he had managed to get on a flight and spend the long dark hours over the Atlantic not sleeping and thinking about exactly what he was he wanted to say when he had all of Professor Kirkland’s attention, but his minimal forethought ran out the minute he set foot on the old and lovely grounds of Cambridge without a clue of how or where to find the guy. 

He had tried calling Arthur’s cell but received only his terse voice mail greeting (honestly, Alfred was beginning to suspect the old Luddite just forget to charge the damned thing) and was left to wander tiredly around the campus until he managed to charm the location of the English Department out of a cute girl with a thing for American accents. He couldn’t wait to rub Artie’s nose in that little bit of fun and see how he liked it when Alfred was the one with awesome accent that made people blush.

The English Department wasn’t all that grand looking, but it was quiet and warm and seemed like the best bet for an Arthur sighting, so Alfred took up residence on a hallway bench and tried not to let his nerves render him stupid. During the mad rush to the airport and the long flight, he’d been so sure that this was the right choice, that this reckless gesture would go over gangbusters, but now in the familiar hum of foreign academic world, Alfred began to feel doubt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he’d already read a dozen times, folded around a missive newer and written by a different hand, letting Arthur’s hidden sweetness assuage his worry and renew his confidence.

Smiling, Alfred closed his eyes and rested his weary head on the back of the bench and fell into a easy daydream of Arthur walking across the green and by the water, teaching and terrifying another nation’s innocent youth. The green turned to the fire colors of fall, and in his hazy wish, Arthur was once more all folded up in Matthew’s chair with Irina on his lap and Alfred sitting at his feet, making fun of the way he said sweet potato while Irina laughed and Arthur pretended to fume.

Alfred stirred at the soft touch across his face, blinking slowly as his jet lagged mind swam towards consciousness. His eyes focused bit by bit on the furrowed brow he’d know anywhere and an affectionate, wondering smile he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on a face he knew so well. Alfred smiled back and tried to raise his hand to catch the fingers that brushed down his cheek, heart moving much faster than thought. Arthur moved away and stopped sharing his rough warmth, and his smile had dipped into a wary grimace of welcome, but Alfred didn’t care because Arthur had found him and Alfred knew he didn’t have a damned thing to be afraid of any more.

“Hey,” Alfred said happily, lurching forward unsteadily.

Arthur grabbed his shoulders and shoved him down, grumbling, “Honestly, how is it that a nearly tenured professor falls asleep in the most inappropriate places?” Alfred shrugged shamelessly beneath his grasp, delighted by the slow spread of redness up Arthur’s throat and across his cheeks as their eyes met. Arthur licked his lips and looked away. “Also, what in the hell are you doing here?”

Alfred fumbled for the letters, waving them in Arthur’s face as he answered seriously, “I kinda thought we might need to talk.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide. He swatted furiously at letters, leaning forward to ask in a low, disbelieving rush, “And you came all the way to England? To stalk me in the halls of Cambridge when I would have been home again in a few days?”

Alfred touched his finger to Arthur’s confused scowl, teasing, “Hey, I’m not the one who dropped a love bomb and then ran off to Merry Old England without another word.”

Arthur blushed and bit at his fingers, muttering hotly, “Oh well, pardon me if I wasn’t considerate enough when handing you my heart on a bloody platter, you idiot.”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut as Alfred’s face went slack with the surprised of actually hearing those words on Arthur’s tongue. And even though they were wrapped in steel wool, abrasive and accusatory, Alfred thought this confession was his favorite because it was so perfectly Arthur.

“It’s alright, I forgive you,” Alfred smiled sweetly and held out his hand, which received a withering glare. Alfred laughed and stood up from the bench, “Because I’m kinda hoping that now you’ll give me a chance to say what I came to say.”

Arthur went rigid before he let out a great sigh that sounded way too much like resignation to Alfred. Alfred wanted to touch him to give him a hint that he hadn’t blown two thousand dollars to come to England and turn him down, but Arthur kept inching away and Alfred knew he was going to have use words to say what his hands were not allowed.

“Very well,” Arthur said softly, “Since you came all this way, I suppose its the least I can do.”

“So magnanimous, Artie.”

Arthur shot him a withering glare, “But I refuse to have you make a scene in the hallowed halls of Cambridge.” He grabbed Alfred’s hand and dragged him into an empty classroom.

“Who says I’m going to make a scene?” Alfred demanded, trying to catch Arthur’s the right way so they could lace their fingers together, but Arthur had already let him go and was standing at the front of the quiet classroom with his back turned. Alfred looked around the walls that could have belonged to a dozen rooms at AU and wished Arthur would look at him. “Hey, Artie,” Alfred called, taking two steps that echoed off the walls. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Arthur.”

Slowly, Arthur turned, the muscles of his throat working anxiously as he said nothing and obviously struggled to hold his expression of feigned disinterest. Alfred took another step, hoping his smile was enough to cover his own nerves. He stopped three paces shy of Arthur’s taut and wary stance and murmured, “Um, hi.” 

Arthur frowned so sharply Alfred couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and little crazy.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alfred said hurried as Arthur’s expression threatened to turn crumble, “I’ve never really done this before, you know? And you’re so much better with words and I’ve always been better at explaining things that actually have a logical explanation instead of all that stuff that’s so open to interpretation that it could go a thousand different ways and still make some kind of sense.”

“Unlike you,” Arthur grumbled, arms loosening and stance softening just a little, easing the tension that kept Alfred from crossing those final feet and storming Arthur’s cranky castle. “Did you actually have a point to make or did you come here just to mumble at me like an unprepared undergraduate?”

Alfred took a deep breath and another step, holding out his hand once more as he took the plunge, “I have both a point and a prepared statement, if you’ll hear me out.” Arthur’s gaze darted from his face to his hand and back again, and Alfred thought he could hear both of their hearts thundering in the quiet of an empty classroom.

Slowly, so slowly, Arthur touched his fingers to Alfred’s palm. “I came here to tell you that I think you should take the Visiting Scholar offer, that this is where you need to be, doing what you need to do.” Alfred curled his fingers around Arthur’s hand before he could snatch it away, holding him fast so he could lift his other hand to Arthur’s cheek and turn his face. Alfred swallowed and brushed his thumb under Arthur’s eye, murmuring, “Wait. I’m not finished yet.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut, hiding his sad and bitter expression. Alfred cleared his throat and tried to remember all the things he’d wanted to say. “I think you should be where you want to be, doing what you want to do. And you shouldn’t worry about me.” Alfred leaned forward and kissed Arthur’s warm forehead, waiting for another glimpse of green eyes before he continued. “You shouldn’t worry about me because I want you to be happy and to have everything you want to have.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “And if you want me to come on this great adventure with you, all you’d have to do is ask.”

Arthur stiffened and gasped, eyes now so wide opened and startled that Alfred had to close his not to lose the last of his resolve to finish what he’d started. He slid his lips from Arthur’s forehead to his ear, kissing the soft curve of a neck that trembled just a little or maybe that was his nervous shake. He sighed and hoped he got all the words he’d tried to memorize right, “And if you wanted me to wait for you, I’ll do that, too…and I’ll be fine…because I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart. I am never without it, anywhere I go, you go, dear.*” 

“Are you saying what I think you are trying to say?” Arthur murmured thickly and Alfred felt a gentle hand splay across his back, hesitant and unsure.

Alfred straightened and chanced opening his eyes to take in Arthur’s wary happiness and the sheen in his eyes and the flush on his cheeks that Alfred was certain was a fetching match to his own hot blush. He laughed and touched his thumb to Arthur’s slightly upturned lips. “You’re the famous English professor. Shouldn’t you be able to read between the lines?”

“Be that as it may,” Arthur said dryly, “I think we’ve spent enough time at cross purposes for me to be comfortable with any room for misinterpretation.” Alfred smiled and wrapped his arm around Arthur’s waist. Arthur blinked and leaned into the embrace, muttering, “So, just this one, if you’d be so kind as to give me one of those absolute answers you scientists are so fond of, I’d be most obliged.”

“Well, Francis tells me that aren’t any absolutes when it comes to things like this,” Alfred said happily before dropping his gaze to Arthur’s and confessing, “But I can tell you, without doubt, without question, that I love you.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, “Oh, I see.”

Alfred smiled and crowded in just a little closer so he could press the ecstatic racing of his heart against Arthur’s sweater vested chest while he teased, “Anything else I can clear up for you? Maybe now would be a good time for me to try and teach you the First Law of Thermodynamics, since you seem to be in a learning mood?”

Arthur laughed and shook his head, murmuring, “I rather think not. Instead I shall stop your mouth with a kiss and let you speak neither**.”

“Now that’s a lesson plan I can get behind, Professor Artie,” Alfred mumbled just before Arthur told him to shut up and stole all the rest of the words they could have said by kissing him breathless in an empty classroom in Cambridge.

Alfred held on tight and gave as good as he got, already looking forward to learning every new thing there was to know about this Arthur, his Arthur. He kissed Arthur and promised with nothing less than the press of his lips and the twist of his tongue that he would studying him every day and night, whether on the grounds of Austen U or in a drafty apartment in England or somewhere entirely new. Alfred didn’t know how this would work, how it would turn out, but he knew that wherever he went, Arthur would always be a part of him.

Because Arthur carried his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From e.e. cummings, “i carry your heart”
> 
> ** From Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing.”


	10. Chapter 10

The May dawn was peeking through the curtains of Alfred’s windows, the glowing red numbers on the clock were creeping towards late, and Arthur was still in bed, curled around Alfred’s pillow with one naked leg thrown shamelessly over the covers and his chest rising and falling in one of the worst imitations of sleep Alfred had ever seen. It hadn’t taken him long since that afternoon of a quiet confession and an awesome kiss in a Cambridge classroom to discover that Arthur wasn’t much for mornings, unless mornings were spent lounging on Alfred’s chest complaining about how many times he had been kicked in the night and surely such horrible bed manners warranted Alfred making Arthur a cup of tea. Any other day, Alfred would have gladly endured Arthur’s totally inaccurate descriptions of his sleeping habits (he did NOT snore, thanks very much) because Arthur eventually swapped happy grumping for even happier kissing, hands and lips and tongues put to far better use than detailing Alfred’s many failings. 

But on this bright May morning, with a stadium full of sunny students waiting for Dean Germania to call their names and shake one hand while pressing a little rolled up piece of paper that signed, sealed, and delivered them unto the world as graduates of AU, Alfred had no choice but to call bullshit on Arthur’s amateur attempt at faking sleep and get him the hell out of bed. There were robes to be donned and smiles to give before another school year could be marked complete and they could both ride off into the sunset of summer break. 

Smirking, Alfred crossed from closet to bed in two great strides, giving Arthur no time to clutch at the sheets before he tore the covers away and bent down to touch his knowing lips to Arthur’s surly frown. Arthur grumbled and failed adorably at trying to keep his eyes closed beneath the heavy furrow of his brow, favoring Alfred with green tinged annoyance within seconds of cool air touching bare skin as Alfred held the covers away from greedy fingers.

“Time to get up, Professor Kirkland! Places to be, things to do, and students to commence!” Alfred sing songed as he darted away from the swatting of Arthur’s hand and the snapping of teeth that wished to capture his bottom lip and punish him for the sin of speaking the truth.

Arthur rolled onto his back and tossed a dramatic arm over his eyes, muttering lowly, “Busy old fool, unruly Idiot Alfred, why dost thou thus, through windows and through curtains call on us?*” 

Alfred smiled and touched his finger to Arthur’s, stilling his words with a tsk-tsk as he settled on the edge of the bed and chided, “Hey now, no trying to worm your way out of this by using John Donne on me.” 

Arthur’s arm promptly fell away and Alfred felt a little smug at the speed with which Arthur sat up and blinked at him with suspicious surprise, nipping at the finger yet pressed against his dumbfounded mouth until Alfred decided to be generous and let him speak again, if only so Arthur could more fully express his admiration of Alfred’s amazing literary repertoire. 

“You’re familiar with that poem?” Arthur said skeptically, shuffling closer to slide one hand over the curve of Alfred’s thigh. “I’m astonished, Professor Jones.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and tried to resume buttoning up his shirt, clock still ticking far too fast for comfort, “Why the hell wouldn’t I know it?” He smiled, remembering the way his heart had raced and his skin had warmed with each word intoned in a cozy library on a wet February afternoon that seemed like a lifetime ago. He turned to brush an absent kiss to Arthur’s temple, confessing softly, “I might have a bit of thing for John Donne. Makes me go all weak in the knees, Professor Kirkland.” 

“Oh, really?” Arthur hummed, twisting in the tangled sheets to throw one leg over Alfred’s lap and drag his lips up the length of his throat, “Now I am even more impressed that someone with an uncouth mind of metal and gears should have such impeccable taste.” Alfred snorted and tried to dislodge Arthur from his lap, only to have Arthur laugh roughly and push him down to the bed, straddling his hips and smirking dangerously.

“I’m so glad you approve,” Alfred muttered, shaking his head as he tried to reach for Arthur’s hands, “But now’s not really the time for discourse on my awesome lit crit skills.” He gasped when Arthur snatched his wrists and pressed his arms above his head, leaning down to kiss the tip of his ear, breath hot on his neck as Alfred squirmed beneath the hold of strong hands and the pin of warm thighs.

He felt Arthur’s smile against his skin as he spoke, “Tell me, dearest, does it make you weak for me if I take Donne on my tongue and say to you,  _License my roving hands and let them go before, behind, between, above, below_ ,” Arthur murmured in that voice that tied knots in Alfred’s chest and made his cheeks go red. He parted his lips to Arthur’s gentle and searching kiss, closing his eyes and indulging for the two moments they had to spare in Arthur’s damned good attempt at distraction.

“ _Oh, my America, my new-found-land_ ,” Arthur whispered, sliding his kiss stained lips over Alfred’s clenched jaw, thumbs brushing little circles over a pulse that Alfred knew beat faster with each honeyed word, “ _My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned, my mine of precious stones._ ” Alfred groaned and arched into the mouth that bit at his throat and murmured too much temptation, “ _My empery, how blest I am in discovering thee_.” Arthur sat up and smiled at him so sweetly, bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss the tips of his fingers, “ _To enter in these bonds is to be set free_.”**

Alfred groaned and scrambled up to kiss Arthur before he could say any more, before he could cast his spell so surely that Alfred knew they’d never get out of bed in time for graduation because he was ten seconds and two lines away from letting Arthur discover as much of America as he pleased. 

“And so, dearest, are you weak for me now?” Arthur murmured smugly, fingers in Alfred’s hair, messing it all up when they had to leave in fifteen minutes and Alfred had a sinking suspicion he was going to show up looking like he’d just been tumbled. 

Alfred laughed and buried his face in Arthur’s shoulder, grumbling, “The opposite, damn you.” He grasped Arthur’s hips and pushed him off of his lap before he could make the situation any more dire, “But that is a subject for later, Professor.”

Arthur pouted and trailed his fingers over Alfred’s chest, “Come now, I’m very eager to further explore your sudden passion for poetry.”

Alfred flushed and rolled his eyes, scooting away from Arthur’s insistent and cloying hands, “I’ll bet you are.” He dipped his head to brush an apologetic kiss to Arthur’s disappointed lips, “But unless you wanna endure a long Germania lecture on the importance of punctuality and decorum after a long Germania speech on the gravity of graduation, let’s save the sexy stanzas for later.” 

“Oh, very well,” Arthur grumbled, finally, finally sitting up from the bed and making a move towards being anything other than way too naked for Alfred to resist for much longer. Arthur pinched his side and kissed his cheek, a threat and a plea as he said, “But we will be returning to your studies, Jones. I’ve yet to introduce you to the wonders of Whitman or undo you with Neruda.” 

“Sounds like I have a lot to learn, oh-wise-Professor Kirkland.” Alfred smiled and wound his arm around Arthur’s waist, closing his eyes to the sun that poured through the gap in his curtains, “In just a few more hours, we’ll have all the time in the world for you to regale me with as much poetry as you want.” 

“Ah, yes,” Arthur murmured quietly, curling in near and warm and soft, “The blissful freedom of summer. I fully intend to make the most of it.”

“I look forward to your expert tutelage,” Alfred teased. “Who knows, maybe I can teach you a little something something, too.” 

Arthur scoffed, “I doubt it. I’m always amazed that any of your students manage to learn anything from a professor who spends more time tinkering with his little robots than teaching.” Alfred squeezed Arthur’s side in retaliation for such ridiculously untrue estimations of his awesome reputation. Arthur kissed his ear, voice gentle, “But you are more than welcome to try. As you say, we’ve got all summer and stranger things have been known to happen.”

“Hard to believe another year is over,” Alfred said, touching his forehead to Arthur’s and thinking of all that had changed and all that would change again come August, when they packed up their lives for six months to go to Cambridge. A new adventure waited on the other side of June and July, but now it was May and there were students that waited to turn their tassels and poems that still needed to be whispered against his skin. All things in good time, Alfred knew. Just like he and Arthur. He smiled and kissed Arthur’s impatient scowl, “But here we are again on graduation day. Together.”

Arthur sighed and fell into the kiss, lips parting around Alfred’s words _,_  and in the sweetness of the kiss and the warmth of the sun that filled the spaces were there bodies did not touch, Alfred discovered the promise of summer and the hope for countless Augusts through Mays spent together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A repeat (with Arthur’s loving edits) of the Donne poem, “The Sun Rising,” which appeared in Chapter 7
> 
> ** “To His Mistress Going to Bed,” John Donne

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart: Opening Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/513823) by [Liberty_Belle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liberty_Belle/pseuds/Liberty_Belle)




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